LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



(lull;. - Copyrio'lit No. 

Slieli: r Al__ 

1360^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



^^ TriE 

'^^ Sketch Book 

or 

GCOrrREY CRAYON. 

GENT. 

REPRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITION 



BY 



WASMINGTON IRVING 



CHICAGO 

W. B. CONKEY COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 




3 6100 

Library of <j:ona-rese 

"•wo ( \}Pies Htcf'-'co 
AUG 18 1900 

Copydght entry 

SECOND COPY. 

Oetivered te 

ORDER DIVISION, 

AUG 25 1900 



f. 



b"^ 



^0 



Copyright, 1900, BY W. B. Conkey Company. 



73585 



TO 

SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart., 

THIS WORK IS DEDICATED, IN TESTIMONY 
OF THE 
ADMIRATION AND^ AFFECTION 
OF 
THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Preface 7 

The Author's Account of Himself 17 

The Voyage 22 

Roscoe 31 

The Wife 41 

Rip Van Winkle 52 

English Writers on America 79 

Rural Life in England 93 

The Broken Heart 104 

The Art of Book-making 112 

A Royal Poet 122 

The Country Church 142 

The Widow and Her Son 150 

A Sunday in London 161 

The Boar's Head Tavern 164 

The Mutability of Literature 181 

Rural Funerals 197 

The Inn Kitchen 214 

The Spectre Bridegroom 217 

Westminster Abbey 240 

Christmas 256 

The Stage-Coach 264 

Christmas Eve 274 

Christmas Day 291 

The Christmas Dinner 311 

London Antiques 332 

Little Britain 341 

Stratford- on- Avon 363 

Traits of Indian Character 391 

Philip of Pokanoket 408 

John Bull 433 

The Pride of the Village 450 

The Angler. 463 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 476 

L'Envoy 523 

5 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED 
EDITION. 

The following papers, with two exceptions, 
were written in England, and formed but part 
of an intended series for which I had made 
notes and memorandums. Before I could 
mature a plan, however, circumstances com- 
pelled me to send them piecemeal to the 
United States, where they were published 
from time to time in portions or numbers. It 
was not my intention to publish them in Eng- 
land, being conscious that much of their con- 
tents could be interesting only to American 
readers, and, in truth, being deterred by the 
severity with which American productions 
had been treated by the British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume 
had appeared in this occasional manner, they 
began to find their way across the Atlantic, 
and to be inserted, with many kind encomi- 
ums, in the London "Literary Gazette." It 
was said, also, that a London bookseller in- 
tended to publish them in a collective form. 
I determined, therefore, to bring them for- 
ward myself, that they might at least have the 
benefit of my superintendence and revision. I 
accordingly took the printed numbers which I 
had received from the United States, to Mr. 
John Murray, the eminent publisher, from 
7 



8 PREFACE. 

whom I had already received friendly atten- 
tions, and left them with him for examination, 
informing him that should he be inclined to 
bring them before the public, I had materials 
enough on hand for a second volume. Several 
days having elapsed without any communica- 
tion from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to 
him, in which I construed his silence into a 
tacit rejection of my work, and begged that 
the numbers I had left with him might be 
returned to me. The following was his 
reply : 

My Dear Sir: I entreat you to believe that 
I feel truly obliged by your kind intentions 
toward me, and that I entertain the most un- 
feigned respect for your most tastefal talents. 
My house is completely filled with workpeople 
at this time, and I have only an office to trans- 
act business in ; and yesterday I was wholly 
occupied, or I should have done myself the 
pleasure of seeing you. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the pub- 
lication of your present work, it is only because 
I do not see that scope in the nature of it 
which would enable me to make those satis- 
factory accounts between us, without which T 
really feel no satisfaction in engaging — but I 
will do all I can to promote their circulation, 
and shall be most ready to attend to any future 
plan of yours. 

With much regard, I remain, dear sir, 
Your faithful servant, 
John Murray. 



PREFACE. 9 

This was disheartening, and might have 
deterred me from any further prosecution of 
the matter, had the question of republication 
in Great Britain rested entirely with me; but 
1 apprehended the appearance of a spurious 
edition. I now thought of Mr. Archibald 
Constable as publisher, having been treated 
by him with much hospitality during a visit to 
Edinburgh: but first I determined to submit 
my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being 
encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I 
had experienced from him at Abbottsford a few 
years previously,and by the favorable opinion he 
had expressed to others of my earlier writings. 
I accordingly sent him the printed numbers 
of the Sketch-Book in a parcel by coach, and 
at the satne time wrote to him, hinting that 
since I had had the pleasure of partaking of 
his hospitality, a reverse had taken place in 
my affairs which made the successful exercise 
of my pen all-important to me; I begged him, 
therefore, to look over the literary articles I 
had forwarded to him, and, if he thought they 
would bear European republication, to ascer- 
tain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined 
to be the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by 
coach to Scott's address in Edinburgh; the 
letter went by mail to his residence in the 
country. By the very first post I received a 
reply, before he had seen my work. 

"I was down at Kelso," said he, "when your 
letter reached Abbotsford. I am now on my 
way to town, and will converse with Constable, 

2 Sketch Book 



10 PREFACE. 

and do all in my power to forward your views 
— I assure you nothing will give me more 
pleasure." 

The hint, however, about a reverse of for- 
tune had struck the quick apprehension of 
Scott, and, with that practical and efficient 
good-will which belonged to his nature, he 
had already devised a way of aiding me. A 
weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, 
was about to be set up in Edinburgh, sup- 
ported by the most respectable talents, and 
amply furnished with all the necessary infor- 
mation. The appointment of the editor, for 
which ample funds were provided, would be 
five hundred pounds sterling a year, with the 
reasonable prospect of, further advantages. 
This situation, being apparently at his disposal, 
he frankly offered to me. The work, however, 
he intimated, was to have somewhat of a polit- 
ical bearing, and he expressed an apprehension 
that the tone it was desired to adopt might not 
suit me. "Yet I risk the question," added 
he, *' because I know no man so well qualified 
for this important task, and perhaps because it 
will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If 
my proposal does not suit, you need only keep 
the matter secret and there is no harm done. 
'And for my love I pray you wrong me not.* 
If on the contrary you think it could be made 
to suit you, let me know as soon as possible, 
addressing Castle Street, Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he 
adds, "I am just come here, and have glanced 
over the Sketch-Book. It is positively beau- 



PREFACE. 11 

tiful, and increases my desire to crimp you, if 
it be possible. Some difficulties there always 
are in managing such a matter, especially ^t 
the outset ; but we will obviate them as much 
as we possibly can. " 

The following is from an imperfect draught 
of my reply, which underwent some modifica- 
tions in the copy sent : 

"I cannot express how much I am gratified 
by your letter. I had begun to feel as if I had 
taken an unwarrantable liberty; but, some- 
how or other, there is a genial sunshine about 
you that warms every creeping thing into 
'heart and confidence. Your literary proposal 
both surprises and flatters me, as it evinces a 
much higher opinion of my talents than I 
have myself." 

I then went on to explain that I found myself 
peculiarly unfitted for the situation offered to 
me, not merel)'- by my political opinions, but by 
the very constitution and habits of my mind. 
"My whole course of life, " I observed, "has 
been desultory, and I am unfitted for any 
periodically recurring task, or any stipulated 
labor of body or mind. I have no command of 
my talents, such as they are, and have to 
watch the varyings of my mind as I would 
those of a weathercock. Practice and training 
may bring me more into rule; but at present 
I am as useless for regular service as one of 
my own country Indians or a Don Cossack. 

*'I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as 
I have begun : writing when I can, not when I 
would. I shall occasionally shift my residence 



12 PREFACE. 

and write whatever is suggested by objects 
before me, or whatever rises in my imagina- 
tion ; and hope to write better and more copi- 
ously by and by. 

"I am playing the egotist, but I know no 
better way of answering your proposal than by 
showing what a very good-for-nothing kind of 
being I am. Should Mr. Constable feel 
inclined to make a bargain for the wares I 
have on hand, he will encourage me to further 
enterprise; and it will be something like trad- 
ing with a gypsy for the fruits of his prowlings, 
who may at one time have nothing but a 
wooden bowl to offer, and at another time a 
silver tankard. " 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not 
surprise, at my declining what might have 
proved a troublesome duty. He then recurred 
to the original subject of our correspondence ; 
entered intg a detail of the various terms upon 
which arrangements were made between 
authors and booksellers, that I might take my 
choice ; expressing the most encouraging con- 
fidence of the success of my work, and of 
previous works which I had produced in Amer- 
ica. "I did no more," added he, "than open 
the trenches with Constable ; but I am sure if 
you will take the trouble to write to him, you 
will find him disposed to treat your overtures 
with every degree of attention. Or, if you 
think it of consequence in the first place to see 
me, I shall be in London in the course of a 
month, and whatever my experience can com- 
mand is most heartily at your command. But 



PREFACE. 13 

I can add little to what I have said above, 
except my earnest recommendation to Con- 
stable to enter into the negotiation."* 

Before the receipt of this most obliging 
letter, however, I had determined to look to 
no leading bookseller for a launch, but to 
throw my work before the public at my own 
risk, and let it sink or swim according to its 
merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, and 
soon received a reply : 

"I observe with pleasure that you are going 
to come forth in Britain. It is certainly not 
the very best way to publish on one's own 
accompt; for the booksellers set their face 
against the circulation of such works as do not 
pay an amazing toll to themselves. But they 
have lost the art of altogether damming up the 

*I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding par- 
agraph of Scott's letter, which, though it does not 
relate to the main subject of our correspondence, was 
too characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously 
I had sent Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo American 
editions of her father's poems published in Edinburgh in 
quarto volumes; showing the "nigromancy" of the 
American press, by which a quart of wine is conjured 
into a pint bottle. Scott observes: "In my hurry, I have 
not thanked you in Sophia's name for the kind attention 
which furnished her with the American volumes. I am 
not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made 
her acquainted with much more of papa's folly than she 
would ever otherwise have learned ; for I had taken 
special care they should never see any of those things 
during their earlier years. I think I have told you that 
Walter is sweeping the firmament with a feather like a 
maypole and indenting the pavement with a sword like 
a scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered 
hussar in the i8th Dragoons." 



14 PREFACE. 

road in such cases between the author and the 
public, which they were once able to do as 
effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's Holy 
War closed up the windows of my Lord Under- 
standing's mansion. I am sure of one thing, 
that you have only to be known to the British 
public to be admired by them, and I would 
not say so unless I really was of that opinion. 
"If you ever see a witty but rather local 
publication called Blackwood's "Edinburgh 
Magazine, ' ' you will find some notice of your 
works in the last number: the author is a 
friend of mine, to whom I have introduced 
you in your literary capacity. His name is 
Lockhart, a young man of very considerable 
talent, and who will soon be intimately con- 
nected with my family. My faithful friend 
Knickerbocker is to be next examined and 
illustrated. Constable was extremely willing 
to enter into consideration of a treaty for your 
works, but I foresee will be still more so when 

Your name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 

And that will soon be the case. I trust 



to be in London about the middle of the month, 
and promise myself great pleasure in once 
again shaking you by the hand." 

The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put 
to press in London, as I had resolved, at my 
own risk, by a bookseller unknown to fame, 
and without any of the usual arts by which a 
work is trumpeted into notice. Still some 
attention had been called to it by the extracts 



PREFACE. 15 

which had previously appeared in the "Liter- 
ary Gazette," and by the kind word spoken 
by the editor of that periodical, and it was 
getting into fair circulation, when my worthy 
bookseller failed before the first month was 
over, and the sale was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I 
called to him for help, as I was sticking in the 
mire, and, more propitious than Hercules, he 
put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through 
his favorable representations, Murray was 
quickly induced to undertake the future publi- 
cation of the work which he had previously 
declined. A further edition of the first vol- 
ume was struck off and the second volume was 
put to press, and from that time Murray became 
my publisher, conducting himself in all his 
dealings with that fair, open, and liberal spirit 
which had obtained for him the well-merited 
appellation of the Prince of Booksellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of 
Sir Walter Scott, I began my literary career in 
Europe; and I feel that I am but discharging, 
in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to the 
memory of that golden-hearted man in 
acknowledging my obligations to him. But 
who of his literary contemporaries ever ap- 
plied to him for aid or counsel that did not 
experience the most prompt, generous, and 
effectual assistance? W. I. 

SUNNYSIDE, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIM- 
SELF. 

I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that 
crept out of her shel was turned ef tsoones into a toad, 
and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on ; so 
the traveler that stragleth from his owne country is in a 
short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that 
he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to 
■live where he can, not where he would. — Lyly's Euphues. 

1 was always fond of visiting new scenes, and 
observing- strange characters and manners. 
Even when a mere child I began my travels, 
and made manj^ tonrs of discovery into foreign 
parts and unknown regions of my native city, 
to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the 
emolument of the town crier. As I grew into 
boyhood, I extended the range of my observa- 
tions. My holiday afternoons were spent in 
rambles about the surrounding country. I 
made myself familiar with all its places famous 
in history or fable. I knew every spot where 
a murder or robbery had been committed, or a 
ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, 
and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, 
by noting their habits and customs, and con- 

2 17 



18 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

versing with their sages and great men. I 
even journeyed one long summer's day to the 
summit of the most distant hill, whence I 
stretched my eye over many a mile of terra 
incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a 
globe I inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with 
my years. Books of voyages and travels be- 
came my passion, and in devouring their con- 
tents, I neglected the regular exercises of the 
school. How wistfully would I wander about 
the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the 
parting ships, bound to distant climes; with 
what longing eyes would I gaze after their 
lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination 
to the ends of the earth ! 

Further reading and thinking, though they 
brought this vague inclination into more rea- 
sonable bounds, only served to make it more 
decided. I visited various parts of my own 
country ; and had I been merely a lover of fine 
scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek 
elsewhere its gratification, for on no country 
had the charms of nature been more prodigally 
lavished. Her mighty lakes, her oceans of 
liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright 
aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild 
fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thunder- 
ing in their solitudes; her boundless plains, 
waving with spontaneous verdure ; her broad, 
deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the 
ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation 
puts forth all its magnificence ; her skies, kind- 
ling with the magic of summer clouds and 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 19 

g-lorious sunshine ; — no, never need an Amer- 
ican look beyond his own country for the sub- 
lime and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth all the charms of stor- 
ied and poetical association. There were to be 
seen the masterpieces of art, the refinements 
of highly cultivated society, the quaint peculi- 
arities of ancient and local custom. My native 
country was full of youthful promise ; Europe 
was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. 
Her very ruins told the history of the times 
gone by, and every mouldering stone was a 
chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes 
of renowned achievement— to tread, as it were, 
in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter about 
the ruined castle — to meditate on the falling 
tower — to escape, in short, from the common- 
place realities of the present, and lose myself 
among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, besides all this, an earnest desire to 
see the great men of the earth. We have, it 
is true, our great men in America : not a city 
but has an ample share of them. I have min- 
gled among them in my time, and been almost 
withered by the shade into which they cast me ; 
for there is nothing so baleful to a small man 
as the shade of a great one, particularly the 
great man of a city. But I was anxious to see 
the great men of Europe ; for I had read in 
the works of various philosophers, that all ani- 
mals degenerated in America, and man among 
the number. A great man of Europe, thought 
I, must, therefore, be as superior to a great 
man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a 



'^0 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

highland of the Hudson; and in this idea I was 
confirmed by observing the comparative im- 
portance and swelling magnitude of many Eng- 
lish travelers among us, who, T was assured, 
were very little people in their own country. 
I will visit this land of wonders, thought I, and 
see the gigantic race from which I am degen- 
erated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to 
have my roving passion gratified. I have wan- 
dered through different countries and wit- 
nessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I 
cannot say that I have studied them with the 
eye of a philosopher; but rather with the saun- 
tering gaze with which humble lovers of the 
picturesque stroll from the w^indow of one 
print-shop to another; caught sometimes by 
the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the 
distortions of caricature, and sometimes by 
the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fash- 
ion for modern tourists to travel pencil in 
hand, and bring home their portfolios filled 
with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few 
for the entertainment of my friends. When, 
however, I look over the hints and memoran- 
dums I have taken down for the purpose, my 
heart almost fails me, at finding how my idle 
humor has led me astray from the great object 
studied by every regular traveler who would 
make a book. I fear I shall give equal disap- 
pointment with an unlucky landscape-painter, 
who had traveled on the Continent, but follow- 
ing the bent of his vagrant inclination, had 
sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 21 

His sketch Dook was accordingly crowded with 
cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins; 
but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or 
the Coliseum, the cascade of Terni, or the bay 
of Naples, atid had not a single glacier or vol- 
cano in his whole collection. 



22 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE VOYAGE. 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting. 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Hallo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 

—Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long 
voyage he has to make is an excellent prepara- 
tive. The temporary absence of worldly scenes 
and employments produces a state of mind pe- 
culiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impres- 
sions. The vast space of waters that separate 
the hemispheres is like a blank page in exist- 
ence. There is no gradual transition by which, 
as in Europe, the features and population of 
one country blend almost imperceptibly with 
those of another. From the moment you lose 
sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy, 
until you step on the opposite shore, and are 
launched at once into the bustle and novelties 
of another world. 

In traveling by land there is a continuity of 
scene, and a connected succession of persons 
and incidents, that carry on the story of life, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 23 

and lessen the effect of absence and separa- 
tion. We drag, it is true, **a lengthening 
chain" at each remove of our pilgrimage; but 
the chain is unbroken; we can trace it back 
link by link; and we feel that the last still 
grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage 
severs us at once. It makes us conscious of 
being cast loose from the secure anchorage of 
settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful 
world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imagi- 
nary, but real, between us and our homes — a 
gulf, subject to tempest, and fear, and uncer- 
tainty, rendering distance palpable, and return 
precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. 
As I saw the last blue lines of my native land 
fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it 
seemed as if I had closed one volume of the 
world and its concerns, and had time for med- 
itation, before I opened another. That land, 
too, now vanishing from my view, which con- 
tained all most dear to me in life; what vicis- 
situdes might occur in it — what changes might 
take place in me, before I should visit it 
again! Who can tell, when he sets forth to 
wander, whither he may be driven by the un- 
certain currents of existence ; or when he may 
return ; or whether it may be ever his lot to 
revisit the scenes of his childhood? 

I said, that at sea all is vacancy; I should 
correct the impression. To one given to day- 
dreaming and fond of losing himself in rever- 
ies, a sea voyage is full of subjects for medita- 
tion ; but then they are the wonders of the deep 



24 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the 
mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll 
•over the quarter-railing or climb to the main- 
top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together 
on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; to 
gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peer- 
ing above the horizon, fancy them some fairy 
realms, and people them with a creation of my 
own; — to watch the gently undulating billows 
rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away 
on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled 
security and awe with which I looked down, 
from my giddy height, on the monsters of the 
deep at their uncouth gambols; shoals of por- 
poises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the 
grampus, slowly heaving his huge form above 
the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, 
like a spectre, through the blue waters. My 
imagination would conjure up all that I had 
heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; 
of the finny herds that roam its fathomless val- 
leys; of the shapeless monsters that lurk 
among the very foundations of the earth; and 
of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of 
fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the 
edge of the ocean, would be another theme of 
idle speculation. How interesting this frag- 
ment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great 
mass of existence ! What a glorious monument 
of human invention ; which has in a manner 
triumphed over wind and wave; has brought 
the ends of the world into communion; has 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 25 

established "an interchange of blessings, pour- 
ing into the sterile regions of the north all the 
luxuries, of the south ; has diffused the light of 
knowledge, and the charities of cultivated life ; 
and has thus bound together those scattered 
portions of the human race, between which 
nature seemed to have thrown an insurmount- 
able barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object 
drifting at a distance. At sea, everything that 
breaks the monotony of the surrounding ex- 
panse attracts attention. It proved to be the 
mast of a ship that must have been completely 
wrecked; for there were the remains of hand- 
kerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fas- 
tened themselves to this spar, to prevent their 
being washed off by the waves. There was no 
trace by which the name of the ship could be 
ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted 
about for many months; clusters of shell-fish 
had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds 
flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is 
the crew? Their struggle has long been over 
— they have gone down amidst the roar of the 
tempest — -their bones lie whitening among the 
caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like 
the waves, have closed over them, and no one 
can tell the story of their end. What sighs 
have been wafted after that ship! what prayers 
offered up at the deserted fireside of home! 
How often has the mistress, the wife, the 
mother, pored over the daily news, to catch 
some casual intelligence of this rover of the 
deep ! How has expectation darkened into 



26 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into 
despair! Alas! not one memento may ever 
return for love to cherish. All that may ever 
be known, is that she sailed from her port/ 'and 
was never heard of more!" 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise 
to many dismal anecdotes. This was particu- 
larly the case in the evening, when the 
weather, which had hitherto been fair, began 
to look wild and threatening, and gave indica- 
tions of one of those sudden storms that will 
sometimes break in upon the serenity of a sum- 
mer voyage. As we sat round the dull light 
of a lamp, in the cabin, that made the gloom 
more ghastly, every one had his tale of ship- 
wreck and disaster. I was particularly struck 
with a short one related by the captain. 

"As I was once sailing, " said he, "in a fine, 
stout ship across the banks of Newfoundland, 
one of those heavy fogs that prevail in those 
parts rendered it impossible for us to see far 
ahead, even in the daytime ; but at night the 
weather was so thick that we could not distin- 
guish any object at twice the length of the 
ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a 
constant watch forward to look out for fishing 
smacks, which are accustomed to anchor on 
the banks. The wind was blowing a smack- 
ing breeze, and we were going at a great rate 
through the water. Suddenly the watch gave 
the alarm of 'a sail ahead!' — it was scarcely 
tittered before we were upon her. She was a 
small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside 
toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 27 

neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just 
amidships. The force, the size, and weight of 
our vessel, bore her down below the waves; 
we passed over her and were hurried on our 
course. As the crashing wreck was sinking 
beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three 
half-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin ; 
they just started from their beds to be swal- 
lowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their 
drowning cry mingling with the wind. The 
blast that bore it to our ears, swept us out of 
all further hearing. I shall never forget that 
cry! It was some time before we could put 
the ship about she was under such headway. 
We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to 
the place where the smack had anchored. We 
cruised about for several hours in the dense 
fog. We fired signal-guns, and listened if we 
might hear the halloo of any survivors: but all 
was silent — we never saw or heard an5^thing of 
them more. ' ' 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end 
to all my fine fancies. The storm increased 
with the night. The sea was lashed into tre- 
mendous confusion. There was a fearful, sul- 
len sound of rushing waves and broken surges. 
Deep called unto deep. At times the black 
volume of clouds overhead seemed rent asun- 
der by flashes of lightning which quivered 
along the foaming billows, and made the suc- 
ceeding darkness doubly terrible. The thun- 
ders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, 
and were echoed and prolonged by the moun- 
tain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and 



28 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

plunging among these roaring caverns, it 
seemed miraculous that she regained her bal- 
ance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards 
would dip into the water; her bow was almost 
buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an im- 
pending surge appeared ready to overwhelm 
her, and notliing but a dexterous movement 
of the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene 
still followed me. The whistling of the wind 
through the rigging sounded like funeral wail- 
ings. The creaking of the masts ; the strain- 
ing and groaning of bulkheads, as the ship 
labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. 
As I heard the waves rushing along the side of 
the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed 
as if Death were raging around this floating 
prison, seeking for his prey; the mere starting 
of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give 
him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea 
and favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal 
reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist 
the gladdening influence of fine weather and 
fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out 
in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and 
careering gayly over the curling waves, how 
lofty, how gallant, she appears — how she seems 
to lord it over the deep ! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a 
sea voyage; for with me it is almost a contin- 
ual reverie — but it is time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrill- 
ing cry of "land!" was given from the mast- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 29 

head. None but those who have experienced 
it can form an idea of the delicious throng of 
sensations which rtish into an American's bos- 
om, when he first comes in sight of Europe. 
There is a volume of associations with the very 
name. It is the land of promise, teeming with 
everything of which his childhood has heard, 
or on which his studious years have pondered. 

From that time, until the moment of arrival, 
it was all feverish excitement. The ships of 
war, that prowled like guardian giants along 
the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching- 
out into the channel; the Welsh mountains 
towering into the clouds; — all were objects of 
intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, 
I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My 
eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with 
their trim shrubberies and green grass-plots. 
I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun 
with ivy, and the taper spire of a village 
church rising from the brow of a neighboring 
hill; — all were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable, that 
the ship was enabled to come at once to her 
pier. It was thronged with people ; some idle 
lookers-on; others, eager expectants of friends 
or relations. I could distinguish the merchant 
to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him 
by his calculating brow and restless air. His 
hands were thrust into his pockets; he was 
whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and 
fro, a small space having been accorded him 
by the crowd, in deference to his temporary 
importance. There were repeated cheerings 



30 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and salutations interchanged between the 
shore and the ship, as friends happened to rec- 
ognize each other. I particularly noticed one 
young woman of humble dress, but interesting 
demeanor. She was leaning forward from 
among the crowd; her eye hurried over the 
ship as it neared the shore, to catch some 
wished-for countenance. She seemed disap- 
pointed and sad; when I heard a faint voice 
call her name. — It was from a poor sailor who 
had been ill all the voyage, and had excited 
the sympathy of every one on board. When 
the weather was fine, his messmates had spread 
a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but 
of late his illness had so increased that he had 
taken to his hammock, and only breathed a 
wish that he might see his wife before he died. 
He had been helped on deck as we came up the 
river, and was now leaning against the 
shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so 
pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even 
the eye of affection did not recognize him. 
But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted 
on his features : it read, at once, a whole vol- 
ume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered 
a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in 
silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings 
of acquaintances — the greetings of friends — the 
consultations of men of business. I alone was 
solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no 
cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land 
of my forefathers — but felt that I was a 
stranger in the land. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 31 



ROSCOE. 

In the service of mankind to be 

A guardian god below ; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the groveling herd. 
And make us shine for ever — that is life. 

—Thomson. 

One of the first places to which a stranger is 
taken in Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is 
established on a liberal and judicious plan; it 
contains a good library, and spacious reading- 
room, and is the great literary resort of the 
place. Go there at what hour you may, you 
are sure to find it filled with grave-looking 
personages, deeply absorbed in the study of 
newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the 
learned, my attention was attracted to a person 
just entering the room. He was advanced in 
life, tall, and of a form that might once have 
been commanding, but it was a little bowed by 
time — perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman 
style of countenance ; a head that would have 
pleased a painter; and though some slight 
furrows on his brow showed that wasting 
thought had been busy there, yet his eye 
beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There 
was something in his whole appearance that 



32 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

indicated a being of a different order from the 
bustling race round him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that 
it was Roscoe. I drew back with an involun- 
tary feeling of veneration. This, then, was an 
author of celebrity ; this was one of those men 
whose voices have gone forth to the ends of 
the earth; with whose minds I have com- 
muned even in the solitudes of America. 
Accustomed, as we are in our country, to 
know European writers only by their works, 
we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, 
engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and 
jostling with the crowd of common minds in, 
the dusty paths of life. They pass before our 
imaginations like superior beings, radiant with 
the emanations of their genius, and surrounded 
by a halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of 
the Medici mingling among the busy sons of 
traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas ; but 
it is from the very circumstances and situa- 
tions in which he has been placed, that Mr. 
Roscoe derives his highest claims to admira- 
tion. It is interesting to notice how some 
minds seem almost to create themselves, 
springing up under every disadvantage, and 
working their solitary but irresistible way 
through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems 
to delight in disappointing the assiduities of 
art, with which it would rear legitimate dul- 
ness to maturity; and to glory in the vigor 
and luxuriance of her chance productions. 
She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. S3 

and though some may perish among the stony 
places of the world, and some be choked by 
the thorns and brambles of early adversity, 
yet others will now and then strike root even 
in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up 
into sunshine, and spread over their sterile 
birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. 
Born in a place apparently ungenial to the 
growth of literary talent — in the very market' 
place of trade; without fortune, family coxi' 
nections, or patronage; self-prompted, self- 
sustained, and almost self-taught, he has con- 
quered every obstacle, achieved his way to 
eminence, and, having become one of the 
ornaments of the nation, has turned the 
whole force of his talents and influence to 
advance and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character 
which has given him the greatest interest 
in my eyes, and induced me particularly to 
point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as 
are his literary merits, he .is but one amonfj 
the many distinguished authors of this inteh 
lectual nation. The}^, hovvxver, in general, 
live but for their own fame, or their own 
pleasures. Their private history presents no 
lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating 
one of hum.an frailty or inconsistency. At 
best, they are prone to steal away ..from the 
bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; to 
indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease; and 
to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive 
enjoyment. 

3 Sketch Book 



34 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Mr. Roscoe, en the contrary, has claimed 
none of the accorded privileges of talent. He 
has shut himself up in no garden of thought, 
nor elysium of fancy; but has gone forth into 
the highways and thoroughfares of life, he has 
planted bowers by the wayside, for the refresh- 
ment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and 
has opened pure fountains, where the laboring 
man may turn aside from the dust and heat of 
the day, and drink of the living streams of 
knowledge. There is a "daily beauty in his 
life," on which mankind may meditate, and 
grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost 
useless, because inimitable example of excel- 
lence; but presents a picture of active, yet 
simple and imitable virtues, tYhich are within 
every man's reach, but which, unfortunately^ 
are not exercised by many, or this world 
would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the 
attention of the citizens of our young and 
busy country where literature and the elegant 
arts must grow up side by side with the 
coarser plants of daily necessity; and must 
depend for their culture, not on the exclusive 
devotion of time and wealth ; nor the quicken- 
ing rays of titled patronage ; but on hours and 
seasons snatched from the purest of worldly 
interests, by intelligent and public-spirited in- 
dividuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a 
place in hours of leisure by one master-spirit, 
and how completely it can give its own im- 
press to surrounding objects. Like his own. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 35 

Lorenzo de Medici, on whom he seems to 
have fixed his eye as on a pure model of anti- 
quity, he has interwoven the history of his 
hfe with the history of his native town, and 
has made the foundations of his fame 
the monuments of his virtues. Wherever 
you go, in Liverpool, you perceive traces 
of his footsteps in all that is elegant and 
liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing 
merely in the channels of trafhc; he has 
diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh 
the garden of literature. By his own 
example and constant exertions, he has 
effected that union of commerce and the intel- 
lectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended 
in one of his latest writings;* and has practi- 
cally proved how beautifully they may be 
brought to harmonize, and to benefit each 
other. The noble institutions for literary and 
scientific purposes, which reflect such credit 
on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse 
to the public mind, have mostly been originated 
and have all been effectually promoted, by 
Mr. Roscoe: and when we consider the ra.pidly 
increasing opulence and magnitude of that 
town, which promises to vie in commercial 
importance with the metropolis, it will be 
perceived that in awakening an ambition of 
mental improvement among its inhabitants, 
he has effected a great benefit to the cause of 
British literature. 

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as 

*Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 



36 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the author; in Liverpool he is spoken of as 
the banker; and I was told of his having been 
unfortunate in business. I could not pity 
him, as I heard some rich men do. I consid- 
ered him far above the reach of pity. Those 
Vv^ho live only for the v/orld, and in the world, 
may be cast down by the frowns of adversity; 
but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome 
by the reverses of fortune. They do but 
drive him in upon the resources of his own 
mind, to the superior society of his own 
thoughts ; which the best of men are apt some- 
times to neglect, and to roam abroad in search 
of less worth}/ associates. He is independent 
of the world around him. He lives with anti- 
quity, and with posterity: with antiquity, in 
the sweet communion of studious retirement; 
and with posterity, in the generous aspirings 
after future renown. The solitude of such a 
mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is 
then visited by those elevated meditations 
which are the proper aliment of noble souls, 
and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the 
wilderness of this world. 

V/hile my feelings were yet alive on the 
subject, it was my fortune to light on further 
traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a 
gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, 
when he turned off, through a gate, into some 
ornamented grounds. After riding a short 
distance, we came to a spacious mansion of 
freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was 
not in the purest st3de, yet it had an air of 
elegance, and the situation was delightful. A 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 37 

fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with 
clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft 
fertile country into a variety of landscapes. 
The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet 
sheet of water through an expanse of green 
meadow land, while the Welsh mountains, 
blended with clouds, and melting into distance, 
bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during- 
the days of his prosperity. It had been the 
seat of elegant hospitality and literary retire- 
ment. The house was now silent and deserted. 
I saw the windows of the study, which looked 
out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. 
The windows were closed — the library was 
gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were 
loitering about the place, whom my fancy 
pictured into retainers of the law. It was like 
visiting some classic fountain, that had once 
welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but 
finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and 
the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's 
library, which had consisted of scarce and 
foreign books, from many of which he had 
drawn the materials for his Italian histories. 
It had passed under the hammer of the 
auctioneer, and was dispersed about the 
country. The good people of the vicinity 
thronged like wreckers to get some part of the 
noble vessel that had been driven on shore. 
Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associa- 
tions, we might imagine something whimsical 
in this strange irruption in the regions of 



38 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory 
of a giant, and contending for the possession 
of weapons which they could not wield. We 
might picture to ourselves some knot of specu- 
lators, debating with calculating brow over 
the quaint binding and illuminated margin of 
an obsolete author; of the air of intense, but 
baffled sagacity, with which some successful 
purchaser attempted to dive into the black- 
letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. 
Roscoe's misfortunes, and one which cannot 
fail to interest the studious mind, that the 
parting with his books seems to have touched 
upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been 
the only circumstance that could provoke the 
notice of his muse. The scholar only knows 
how dear these silent, yet eloquent, compan- 
ions of pure thoughts and innocent hours 
become in the season of adversity. When all 
that is worldly turns to dross around us, 
these only retain their steady value. When 
friends grow cold, and the converse of inti- 
mates languishes into vapid civility and com- 
monplace, these only continue the unaltered 
countenance of happier days, and cheer us with 
that true friendship which never deceived 
hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the 
people of Liverpool had been properly sensible 
of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and them- 
selves, his library would never have been 
sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, 
be given for the circumstance, which it would 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 39 

be difficult to combat with others that might 
seem merely fanciful ; but it certainly appears 
to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, 
of cheering a noble mind struggling under 
misfortunes by one of the most delicate, but 
most expressive tokens of public sympathy. 
It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of 
genius properly who is daily before our eyes. 
He becomes mingled and confounded with 
other men. His great qualities lose their 
novelty; we become too familiar with the 
common materials which form the basis e^ren 
of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's 
townsmen may regard him merely as a man of 
business; others, as a politician; all find him 
engaged like themselves in ordinary occupa- 
tions, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves 
on some points of worldly wisdom. Even 
that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of 
character, which gives the nameless grace to 
real excellence, may cause him to be under- 
valued by some coarse minds, who do not 
know that true worth is always void of glare 
and pretension. But the man of letters, who 
speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the resi- 
dence of Roscoe. — The intelligent traveler 
who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be 
seen. He is the literary landmark of the 
place, indicating its existence to 'the distant 
scholar. — He is like Pompey's column at Alex- 
andria, towering alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. 
Roscoe to his books, on parting with them, 
has already been alluded to. If anything can 



40 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

add effect to the pure feeling and elevated 
thought here displayed, it is the conviction, 
that the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a 
faithful transcript from the writer's heart. 

TO MY BOOK3. 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile, 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art. 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers. 
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 41 



THE WIFE. 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the concealed comforts of a man 
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house, 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — 
The violet bed 's no sweeter ! 

— Middleton. 

I have often had occasion to remark the for- 
titude with which women sustain the most 
overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those 
disasters which break down the spirit of a 
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to 
call forth all the energies of the softer sex, 
and give such intrepidity and elevation to 
their character, that at times it approaches to 
sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, 
than to behold a soft and tender female, who 
had been all weakness and dependence, and 
alive to every trivial roughness, while tread- 
ing the prosperous paths of life, suddenly 
rising in mental force to be the comforter and 
support of her husband under misfortune, and 
abiding with unshrinking firmness the bitterest 
blast of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its 
graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted 
by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy oak 
is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it 

4 Sketch Book 



42 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

with its caressing- tendrils, and bind up its 
shattered boughs, so is it beautifullly 
ordered by Providence, that woman, who is 
the mere dependent and ornament of man 
in his happier hours, should be his stay and 
solace when smitten with sudden calamity; 
winding herself into the rugged recesses of his 
nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, 
and binding up the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had 
around him a blooming family, knit together 
in the strongest affection. "I can wish you 
no better lot." said he, with enthusiasm, "than 
to have a wife and children. If you are pros- 
perous, there they are to share your pros- 
perity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort 
you." And, indeed, I have observed that a 
married man falling into misfortune, is more 
apt to retrieve his situation in the world than 
a single one ; partly, because he is more 
stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the 
helpless and beloved beings who depend upon 
him for subsistence, but chiefly because his 
spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic 
endearments, and his self-respect kept alive 
by finding, that, though all abroad is darkness 
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world 
of love at home, of which he is the monarch. 
Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste 
and self -neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and 
abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like 
some deserted mansion, for want of an in- 
habitant. 

These observations call to mind a little 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 43 

domestic story, of which I was once a witness. 
My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a 
beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been 
brought up in the midst of fashionable life. 
She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my 
friend was ample; and he delighted in the 
anticipation of indulging her in every elegant 
pursuit, and administering to those delicate 
tastes and fancies that spread a kind of 
witchery about the sex. — "Her life," said 
he, "shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters pro- 
duced a harmonious combination; he was of 
a romantic, and somewhat serious cast; she 
was all life and gladness. I have often 
noticed the mute rapture with which he would 
gaze upon her in company, of which her 
sprightly powers made her the delight; and 
how, in the midst of applause, her eye would 
still turn to him, as if there alone she sought 
favor and acceptance. When leaning on his 
arm, her slender form contrasted finely with 
his tall, manly person. The fond, confiding 
air with which she looked up to him seemed 
to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and 
cherishing tenderness, as if he doated on his 
lovely burden from its very helplessness. 
Never did a couple set forward on the flowery 
path of early and well- suited marriage with a 
fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, how- 
ever, to have embarked his property in large 
speculations ; and he had not been married 
many months, when, by a succession of sud- 



44 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

den disasters, it was swept from him, and he 
found himself reduced to almost penury. For 
a time he kept his situation to himself, and 
went about with a haggard countenance, and 
a breaking heart. His life was but a pro- 
tracted agony; and what rendered it more in- 
supportable was the necessity of keeping up a 
smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could 
not bring himself to overwhelm her with the 
news. She saw, however, with the quick 
eyes of affection, that all was not well with 
him. . She marked his altered looks and stifled 
sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly 
and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She 
tasked all her sprightly powers and tender 
blandishments to win him back to happiness; 
but she only drove the arrow deeper into his 
soul. The more he saw cause to love her, 
the more torturing was the thought that he 
was soon to make her wretched. A little 
while, thought he, and the smile will vanish 
from that cheek— the song will die away from 
those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be 
quenched with sorrow; and the happy heart 
which now beats lightly in that bosom, will 
be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and 
miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and 
related his whole situation in a tone of the 
deepest despair. When I had heard him 
through, I inquired: "Does you wife know 
all this?" — At the question he burst into an 
agony of tears. "For God's sake!" cried he, 
"if you have any pity on me don't mention my 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 45 

wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me 
almost to madness ! * ' 

"And why not?" said I. "She must know 
it sooner or later : you cannot keep it long 
from her, and the intelligence may break upon 
her in a more startling manner than if im- 
parted by yourself; for the accents of those 
we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, 
you are depriving yourself of the comforts of 
her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also 
endangering the only bond that can keep 
hearts together — an unreserved community of 
thought and feeling. She will soon perceive 
that something is secretly preying upon your 
mind ; and true love will not brook reserve ; 
it feels undervalued and outraged, when even 
the sorrows of those it loves are concealed 
from it. " 

"Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow I 
am to give to all her future prospects, — how I 
am to strike her very soul to the earth, by 
idling her that her husband is a beggar! that 
she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all 
the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into 
indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that I 
have dragged her down from the sphere in 
which she might have continued to move in 
constant brightness — the light of every eye — 
the admiration of every heart — How can she 
bear poverty? She has been brought up in 
all the refinements of opulence. How can she 
bear neglect? She has been the idol of society. 
Oh, it will break her heart — it will break her 
lieart!" 



46 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it 
have its flow; for sorrow relieves itself by 
words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and 
he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
the subject gently, and urged him to break his 
situation at once to his wife. He shook his 
head mournfully, but positively. 

"But how are you to keep it from her? It 
is necessary she should know it, that you may 
take the steps proper to the alteration^ of your 
circumstances. You must change your style 
of living — nay," observing a pang to pass 
across Ijis countenance, "don't let that afflict 
you. I am sure you have never placed your 
happiness in outward show — you have yet 
friends, warm friends, who will not think the 
worse of you for being less splendidly lodged ; 
and surely it does not require a palace to be 
happy with Mary " 

"I could be happy with her," cried he, con- 
vulsively, "in a hovel! — I could go down with 
her into poverty and the dust ! — I could — God 
bless her!— God bless her!" cried he, bursting 
into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, step- 
ping up, and grasping him warmly by the 
hand, "believe me, she can be the same with 
you. Ay, more ; it will be a source of pride 
and triumph to her- — it will call forth all the 
latent energies and fervent sympathies of her 
nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she 
loves you for yourself. There is in every tnie 
woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which 
lies dormant on the broad daylight of prosper- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 47 

ity; but which kindles up, and beams, and 
blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man 
knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man 
knows what a ministering angel she is — until 
he has gone with her through the fiery trials 
of this world. ' ' 

There was something in the earnestness of 
my manner, and the figurative style of my 
language, that caught the excited imagination 
of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal 
with; and following up the impression I had 
made, I finished by persuading him to go 
home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had 
said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. 
Who can calculate on the fortitude of one 
whose life has been a round of pleasures? Her 
gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward 
path of low humility suddenly pointed out be- 
fore her, and might cling to the sunny regions 
in which they had hitherto reveled. Besides, 
ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so 
many galling mortifications, to which, in other 
ranks, it is a stranger. In short, I could not 
meet Leslie, the next morning, without trepi- 
dation. He had made the disclosure. 

"And how did she bear it?" 

*'Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a 
relief to her mind, for she threw her arms 
around my neck, and asked if this was all that 
had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor girl, ' ' 
added he, "she cannot realize the change we 
must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but 
in the abstract ; she has only read of it in the 



48 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

poetry, where it is allied to love. vShe feels as 
yet no privation ; she suffers no loss of accus- 
tomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we 
come practically to experience its sordid cares, 
its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then 
will be the real trial." 

"But," said I, "now that you have got over 
the severest task, that of breaking it to her, 
the sooner you let the world into the secret the 
better. The disclosure may be mortifying; 
but then it is a single misery, and soon over: 
whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipa- 
tion, every hour in the day. It is not poverty 
so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined 
man — the struggle between a proud mind and 
an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow 
show that must soon come to an end. Have 
the courage to appear poor, and you disarm 
poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point 
I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no 
false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was 
only anxious to conform to their altered for- 
tunes. 

Some days afterwards, he called upon me in 
the evening. He had disposed of his dwell- 
ing-house, and taken a small cottage in the 
country, a few miles from town. He had been 
busied all day in sending out furniture. The 
new establishment required few articles, and 
those of the simplest kind. All the splendid 
furniture of his late residence had been sold, 
excepting his wife's harp. This, he said, was 
too closely associated with the idea of herself; 
it belonged to the little story of their loves; 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 49 

for some of the sweetest moments of their 
courtship were those when he had leaned over 
that instrument, and listened to the melting 
tones of her voice. I could not but smile at 
this instance of romantic gallantry in a doat- 
ing husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where 
his wife had been all day superintending its 
arrangement. My feelings had become 
strongly interested in the progress of his fam- 
ily story, and, as it was a fine evening, I 
offered to accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, 
and, as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy 
musing. 

"Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy 
sigh, from his lips. 

*'And what of her," asked I, *'has anything 
happened to her?" 

"What," said he, darting an impatient 
glance, "is it nothing to be reduced to this 
paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable 
cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the 
menial concerns of her wretched habitation?" 

"Has she then repined at the change?" 

"Repined! she has been nothing but sweet- 
ness and good-humor. Indeed, she seems in 
better spirits than have ever known her ; she 
has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
comfort!" 

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call 
yourself poor, my friend ; you never were so 
rich, — you never knew the boundless treasures 
of excellence you possessed in that woman. " 

4 



.50 THE SKETCH BOOK, 

"Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at 
the cottage were oyer, I think I conld then be 
comfortable. But this is her first day of real 
experience; she has been introduced into a 
humble dwelling,— she has been employed all 
day in arranging its miserable equipments, — 
she has, for the first time, known the fatigues 
of domestic employment, she has, for the first 
time, looked around her on a home destitute 
of every thing elegant — -almost of every thing 
convenient; and may now be sitting down, 
exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a 
prospect of future poverty. ' ' 

There was a degree of probability in this 
picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked 
on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a nar- 
row lane, so thickly shaded with forest-trees 
as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we 
came in sight of the cottage. It was humble 
enough in its appearance for the most pastoral 
poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A 
wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion 
of foliage; a few trees threw their branches 
gracefully over it ; and I observed several pots 
of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, 
and on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket- 
gate opened upon a footpath that wound 
through some shrubbery to the door. Just as 
we approached, we heard the sound of music — 
Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and 
listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a 
style of the most touching simplicity, a little 
air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 51 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He 
stepped forward, to hear more distinctly. His 
step made a noise on the gravel- walk. A 
bright beautiful face glanced out at the win- 
dow, and vanished — a light footstep was heard 
— and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. 
She w^as in a pretty rural dress of white ; a 
few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; 
a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole 
countenance beamed with smiles — I had never 
seen her look so lovely. 

' ' My dear George, ' ' criedshe, ' ' I am so gladyou 
are come ; I have been watching and watching for 
you ; and running down the lane, and looking out 
for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful 
tree behind the cottage; and I've been gather- 
ing some of the most delicious strawberries, 
for I know you are fond of them: — and we have 
such excellent cream — and everything is so 
sweet and still here — Oh!" — said she, putting 
her arm within his, and looking up brightly 
in his face, "Oh, we shall be so happy!" 

Poor Leslie was overcome. — He caught her 
to his bosom — he folded his arms round her — 
he kissed her again and again — he could not 
speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes; and 
he has often assured me, that though the 
world has since gone prosperously with him, 
and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, 
yet never has he experienced a moment of 
more exquisite felicity. 



5^ THE SKETCH BOOK. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKER- 



By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre — Cartwright. 

[The following Tale was found among the papers of 
the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of 
New York, who was very curious in the Dutch History 
of the province, and the manners of the * descendants 
from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, 
however, did not lie so much among books as among 
men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his 
favorite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and 
still more, their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so 
invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he 
happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up 
in its low-roofed farm-house, under a spreading syca- 
more, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of 
black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book- 
worm. ' 

The result of all these researches was a history of the 
province, during the reign of the Dutch governors, 
which he published some years since. There have been 
various opinions as to the literary character of his work, 
and to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it 
should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, 
which, indeed, v^ras a little questioned, on its first appear- 
ance, but has since been completely established; and it 
is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book 
of i.mquestionable authority. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 53 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication 
of his work; and now that he is dead and gone, it can- 
not do much harm to his memory to say that his time 
might have been much better employed in weightier 
labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his 
own way.; and though it did now and then kick up the 
dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve 
the spirit of some friends, for whom he fet the truest 
deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are 
remembered "more in sorrow than in anger," and it 
begins to be suspected, that he never intended to injure 
or offend. But however his memory may be appre- 
ciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folks, 
whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly 
by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to 
imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes, and have 
thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal 
to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen 
Anne's farthing.] 



Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson 
must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They 
are a dismembered branch of the great Appa- 
lachian family, and are seen away to the west 
of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and 
lording it over the surrounding country. 
Every change of season, every change of 
weather, indeed, every hour of the day pro- 
duces some change in thernagical hues and 
shapes of these mountains ; and they are re- 
garded by all the good wives, far and near, as 
perfect barometers. When the weather is 
fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and 
purple, and print their bold outlines on the 
clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the 
rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will 
gather a hood of gray vapors about their sum- 



54 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

mits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, 
will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the 
voyager may have descried the light smoke 
cu:fling up from a village, whose shingle roofs 
gleam among the trees, just where the blue 
tints of the upland melt away into the fresh 
green of the nearer landscape. It is a little 
village of great antiquity, having been founded 
by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early 
times of the province just about the begin- 
ning of the government of the good Peter Stuy- 
vesant (may he rest in peace!) and there were 
some of the houses of the original settlers 
standing within a few years, built of small 
yellow bricks, brought from Holland, having 
latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted 
with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very 
houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was 
sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there 
lived, many years since, while the country 
was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, 
good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van 
Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van 
Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chival- 
rous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accom- 
panied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He 
inherited, however, but little of the martial 
character of his ancestors. I have observed 
that he was a simple, good-natured man ; he 
w^as, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an 
obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the 
latter circumstance might be owing that meek- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 55 

ness of spirit which gained him such universal 
popularity; for those men are apt to be ob- 
sequious and conciliating abroad, who are under 
the discipline of shrews at home. Their tem- 
pers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and 
malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic 
tribulation, and a curtain-lecture is worth all 
the sermons in the world for teaching the 
virtues of patience and long-suffering. A 
termagent wife may, therefore, in some re- 
spects, be considered a tolerable blessing, and 
if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite 
among all the good wives of the village, who, 
as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in 
all family squabbles, and never failed, when- 
ever they talked those matters over in their 
evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on 
Dame Van Winkle. The children of the vil- 
lage, too, would shout with joy whenever he 
approached. He assisted at their sports, made 
their playthings, taught them to fly kites and 
shoot marbles, and told them long stories of 
ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he 
went dodging about the village, he was sur- 
rounded by a ,troop of them hanging on his 
skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a 
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not 
a dog would bark at him throughout the 
neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an 
insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable 
labor. It could not be for want of assiduity 
or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, 



56 . fHE SKETCH BOOK. 

with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's 
lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even 
though he should not be encouraged by a sin- 
gle nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece 
on his shoulder, for hours together, trudging 
through woods and swamps, and up hill and 
down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild 
pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a 
neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a 
foremost man in all country frolics for husk- 
ing Indian corn, or building stone fences; the 
women of the village, too, used to employ him 
to run their errands, and to do such little odd 
jobs as their less obliging husbands would not 
do for them. In a word. Rip was ready to at- 
tend to anybody's business but his own; but 
as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm 
in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work 
on his farm; it was the most pestilent little 
piece of ground in the whole country; every- 
thing about it went wrong, in spite of him. 
His fences were continually falling to pieces; 
his cow would either go astray, or get among 
the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quick- 
er in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain 
always made a point of setting in just as he 
had some outdoor work to do; so that though 
his patrimonial estate had dwindled away un- 
der his management, acre by acre, until there 
was little more left than a mere patch of In- 
dian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst- 
conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children; too, were as ragged and v/ild 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 67 

as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, 
an urchin begotten in his own likeness, prom- 
ised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes 
of his father. He was generally seen troop- 
ing like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped 
in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, 
which he had much ado to hold up with one 
hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad 
weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those 
happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled disposi- 
tions, who take the world eas}^ eat white bread 
or brown, whichever can be got with least 
thought or trouble, and would rather starve 
on a penny than work for a pound. If left to 
himself, he would have whistled life away, in 
perfect contentment; but his wife kept con- 
tinually dinning in his ears about his idleness, 
his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing 
on his family. Morning, noon, and night, 
her tongue was incessantly going, and every- 
thing he said or did was sure to produce a tor- 
rent of household eloquence. Rip had but one 
way of replying to all lectures of the kind, 
and that, by frequent use, had grown into a 
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his 
head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. 
This, however, always provoked a fresh volley 
from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off 
his forces, and take to the outside of the 
house — the only side which, in truth, belongs 
to a henpecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog 
Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his mas- 



58 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

ter; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as 
companions in idleness, and even looked upon 
Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his mas- 
ter's going so often astray. True it is, in all 
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he 
was as courageous an animal as ever scoured 
the woods — but what courage can withstand 
the evil-doing and all-besetting terrors of a 
woman's tongue? The moment ¥/olf entered 
the house, his crest fell, his tail drooped to the 
ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked 
about with a gallows air, casting many a side- 
long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the 
least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he 
would fly to the door with yelping precipita- 
tion. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van 
Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart 
temper never mellows with age, and a sharp 
tongue is the only edged tool that grows keen- 
er with constant use. For a long while he 
used to console himself, when driven from 
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club 
of the sages, philosophers, and other idle per- 
sonages of the village, which held its sessions 
on a bench before a small inn, designated by 
a rubicund portrait of his Majesty George the 
Third. Here they used to sit in the shade 
through a long, lazy summer's day, talking 
listlessly over village gossip, or telling end- 
less, sleepy stories about nothing. But it 
would have been worth any statesman's money 
to have heard the profound discussions which 
sometimes took place, when by chance an old 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 59 

newspaper fell into their hands from some 
passing traveler. How solemnly they would 
listen to the contents, as drawled out by Der- 
rick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper 
learned little man, who was not to be daunted 
by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; 
and how sagely they would deliberate upon 
public events some months after they had taken 
place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely 
controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of 
the village, and landlord of the inn, at the 
door of which he took his seat from raorning 
till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the 
sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so 
that the neighbors could tell the hour by his 
movements as accurately as by a snn-dial. It 
is true, he was rarely heard to speak,, but 
smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, 
however (for every great man has his adher- 
ents), perfectly understood him, and knew how 
to gather his opinions. When anything that 
was read or related displeased him, he was 
observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and 
to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs ; 
but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke 
slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and 
placid clouds, and sometimes, taking his pipe 
from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor 
curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head 
in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip 
was at length routed by his termagant wife, 
who would suddenly break in upon the tran- 



60 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

quillity of the assemblage, and call the mem- 
bers all to nought ; nor was that august per- 
sonage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from 
the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who 
charged him outright with encouraging her 
husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to de- 
spair; and his only alternative, to escape from 
the labor of the farm and the clamor of his 
wife, was to take gun in hand, and stroll away 
into the woods. Here he would sometimes 
seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the 
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom 
he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecu- 
tion. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mis- 
tress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never 
mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never 
want a friend to stand by thee!" Wolf would 
wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, 
and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he 
reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine au- 
tumnal day. Rip had unconsciously scrambled 
to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill 
mountains. He was after his favorite sport of 
squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had 
echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his 
gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, 
late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered 
with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow 
of a precipice. From an opening between the 
trees, he could overlook all the lower country 
for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at 
a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 61 

him, moving- on its silent but majestic course, 
with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the 
sail of a lagging bark, here and- there sleeping 
on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in 
the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep 
mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the 
bottom filled with fragments from the impend- 
ing cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected 
rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip 
lay musing on this scene; evening was grad- 
ually advancing ; the mountains began to throw 
their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he 
saw that it would be dark long before he could 
reach the village; and he heaved a heavy sigh 
when he thought of encountering the terrors 
of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice 
from a distance hallooing: "Rip Van Winkle! 
Rip Van Winkle!" He looked around,- but 
could see nothing but a crow winging its sol- 
itary flight across the mountain. Rethought 
his fancy must have deceived him, and turned 
again to descend, when he heard the same cry 
ring through the still evening air, "Rip Van 
Wrinkle! Rip, Van Winkle!" — at the same time 
Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low 
growl, skulked to his master's side, looking 
fearfull}^ down into the glen. Rip now felt a 
vague apprehension stealing over him; he 
looked anxiously in the same direction, and 
perceived a vStrange figure slowly toiling up 
the rocks, and bending under the weight of 
something he carried on his back. He was 



62 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

surprised to see any human being in this lonely 
and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be 
some one of the neighborhood in need of his 
assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more sur- 
prised at the singularity of the stranger's ap- 
pearance. He was a short, square-built old 
fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled 
beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch 
fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the 
waist — several pairs of breeches, the outer one 
of ample volume, decorated with rows of but- 
tons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. 
He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that 
seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip 
to approach and assist him with the load. 
Though rather shy and distrustful of this new 
acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alac- 
rity; and mutually relieving each other, they 
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the 
dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they as- 
cended. Rip every now and then heard long 
rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed 
to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft 
between lofty rocks, toward vs^hich their rug- 
ged path conducted. He paused for an in- 
stant, but supposing it to be the muttering of 
one of those transient thunder-showers which 
often take place in the mountain heights, he 
proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they 
came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, 
surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over 
the brinks of which impending trees shot their 
branches, so that you only caught glimpses of 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 63 

the azure sky, and the bright evening cloud. 
During the whole time Rip and his companion 
had labored on in silence ; for though the form- 
er marveled greatly what could be the object 
of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild moun- 
tain, yet there was something strange and in- 
comprehensible about the unknown, that in- 
spired awe, and checked familiarit}^ 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects 
of wonder presented themselves. On a level 
spot in the center was a company of odd-look- 
ing personages playing at ninepins. They 
were dressed in quaint outlandish fashion; 
some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with 
long knives in their belts, and most of them 
had enormous breeches, of similar style with 
that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were 
peculiar; one had a large head, broad face, and 
small piggish eyes ; the face of another seemed 
to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted 
by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little 
red cock's tail. They all had beards, of vari- 
ous shapes and colors. There was one who 
seemed to be the commander. He was a stout 
old gentleman, with a weather-beaten counte- 
nance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and 
hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red 
stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in 
them. The whole group reminded Rip of the 
figures in an old Flemish painting, in the par- 
lor of Dominie Van Schaick, the village par- 
son, and which had been brought over from 
Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, 



64 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

that though these folks were evidently amusing 
themselves, yet they maintained the gravest 
faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, 
withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure 
he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted 
the stillness of the scene but the noise of the 
balls, which, whenever they were rolled, 
echoed along the mountains like rumbling 
peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, 
they suddenly desisted from their pla}^, and 
stared at him with such a fixed statue-like gaze, 
and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre counte- 
nances, that his heart turned within him, and 
his knees smote together. His companion now 
emptied the contents of the keg into large flag- 
ons, and made signs to him to wait upon the 
company. He obeyed with fear and tremb- 
ling; they quaffed the liquor in profound 
silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees. Rip's awe and apprehension sub- 
sided. He even ventured, when no eye was 
fixed upon him, to taste the beverage which 
he found had much of the flavor of excellent 
Hollands, He was naturally a thirsty soul, 
and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. 
One taste provoked another; and he reiterated 
his visits to the flagon so often, that at length 
his sense were overpowered, his eyes swam in 
his head, his head gradually declined, and he 
fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green 
knoll whence he had first seen the old man of 
the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 65 

sunny morning. The birds were hopping and 
twittering among the bushes, and the eagle 
was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure 
mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I 
have not slept here all night." He recalled 
the occurrences before he fell asleep.^ The 
strange man with the keg of liquor — the 
mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the 
rocks — the wo-begone party at ninepins — the 
flagon — "Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon !" 
thought Rip' — "what excuse shall I make to 
Dame Van Winkle?" 

He looked around for his gun, but in place 
of the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found 
an old fire-lock lying by him, the barrel en- 
crusted with rust, the lock falling oil, and the 
stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the 
grave roysterers of the mountains had put a 
trick upon him, and, having dosed him with 
liquor, had robbed him of his gun Wolf, too, 
had disappeared, but he might have strayed 
away after a squirrel or partridge. He whis- 
tled after him and shouted his name, but all in 
vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and 
shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the 
last evening's gambol, and if he met with any 
of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As 
he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the 
joints, and wanting in his usual activity. 
"These mountain beds do not agree with me," 
thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me 
up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a 
blessed time with Dame Van V/inkle. " With 

5 Sketch Book 



66 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

some difficulty he got down into the glen ; he 
found the gully up which he and his companion 
had ascended the preceding evening; but to 
his astonishment a mountain stream was now 
foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, 
and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. 
He, however, made shift to scramble up its 
sides, working his toilsome way through thick- 
ets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel; and 
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild 
grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils 
from tree to tree, and spread a kind of net- 
work in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine 
had opened through the cliffs to the amphithe- 
atre ; but no traces of such opening remained. 
The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, 
over which the torrent came tumbling in a 
sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad 
deep basin, black from the shadows of the sur- 
rounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was 
brought to a stand. He again called and whis- 
tled after his dog; he was only answered by 
the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting 
high in the air about a dry tree that overhung 
a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their 
elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at 
the poor man's perplexities. What was to be 
done? The morning was passing away, and Rip 
felt famished for want of his breakfast. He 
grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dread- 
ed to meet his wife ; but it would not do to 
starve among the mountains. He shook his 
head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 67 

a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his 
steps homeward. 

As he approached the village, he met a num- 
ber of people, but none whom he knew, which 
somewhat surprised him, for he had thought 
himself acquainted with every one in the 
country round. Their dress, too, was of a 
different fashion from that to which he was 
accustomed. They all stared at him with 
equal marks of surprise and whenever they 
cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their 
chins. The constant recurrence of this ges- 
ture, induced Rip involuntarily, to do the same, 
when, to his astonishment, he found his beard 
had grown a foot long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. 
A troop of strange children ran at his heels, 
hooting after him, and pointing at his gray 
beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he 
recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at 
him as he passed. The very village was 
altered; it was larger and more populous. 
There were rows of houses which he had never 
seen before, and those which had been his fa- 
miliar haunts had disappeared. Strange names 
were over the doors — strange faces at the win- 
dows — everything was strange. His mind now 
misgave him ; he began to doubt whether both 
he and the world around him were not be- 
witched. Surely, this was his native village, 
which he had left but a day before. There 
stood the Kaatskill mountains — there ran the 
silver Hudson at a distance — there was every 
hill and dale precisely as it had always been — 



68 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Rip was sorely perplexed — "That flagon last 
night," thought he, "has addled my poor head 
sadly!" 

It was with some difficulty that he found the 
way to his own house, which he approached 
with silent awe, expecting every moment to 
hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He 
found the house gone to decay — the roof had 
fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors 
off the hinges. A half-starved dog, that looked 
like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called 
him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his 
teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut, ■ 
indeed. — "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, 
"has forgotten me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. 
Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat 
order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently 
abandoned. This desolateness overcame all 
his connubial fears — he called loudly for his 
wife and children — the lonely chambers rang 
for a moment with his voice, and then all 
again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his 
old resort, the village inn — but it too was 
gone. A large rickety wooden building stood 
in its place, with great gaping windows, some 
of them broken, and mended with old hats and 
petticoats, and over the door was painted, 
"The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." 
Instead of the great tree that used to shelter 
the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now 
v/as reared a tall naked pole, with something 
on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 69 

from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a 
singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all 
this was strange and incomprehensible. He 
recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face 
of King George, under which he had smoked 
■so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was 
singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was 
changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was 
held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head 
was decorated with a cocked hat, and under- 
neath was painted in large characters, "Gen- 
eral Washington." 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about 
the door, but none that Rip recollected. The 
very character of the people seemed changed. 
There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone 
about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm 
and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain 
for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad 
face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering 
clouds of tobacco-smoke, instead of idle speech- 
es; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling 
forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. 
In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fel- 
low, with his pockets full of handbills, was 
haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens 
— elections — members of Congress — liberty — 
Bunker's hill — heroes of seventy-six — and 
other words, which were a perfect Babylonish 
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, griz- 
zled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth 
dress, and the army of women and children at 
his heels, soon attracted the attention of the 



70 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

tavern politicians. They crowded round him, 
eyeing him from head to foot, with great curi- 
osity. The orator bustled up to him, and, 
drawing him partly aside, inquired, "on which 
side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupid- 
ity. Another short but busy little fellow 
pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, 
inquired in his ear, "whether he was Federal 
or Democrat. ' ' Rip was equally at a loss to 
comprehend the question ; when a knowing, 
self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked 
hat, made his way through the crowd, putting 
them to the right and left with his elbows as 
he passed, and planting himself before Van 
Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other rest- 
ing on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat 
penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, 
demanded in an austere tone, "What brought 
him to the election with a gun on his shoul- 
der, and a mob at his heels; and whether he 
meant to breed a riot in the village?" 

"Alas, gentlemen!" cried Rip, somewhat 
dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a native of 
the place, and a loyal subject of the King, God 
bless him!" 

Here a general shout burst from the bystand- 
ers — "a tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle 
him! away with him!" It was with great 
difficulty that the self-important man in the 
cocked hat restored order ; and having assumed 
a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of 
the unknown culprit, what he came there for, 
and whom he was seeking. The poor man 
humbly assured him that he meant no harm, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 71 

but merely came there in search of some of 
his neighbors, who used to keep about the tav- 
ern. 

"Well — who are they? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and in- 
quired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when 
an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, 
"Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone 
these, eighteen years! There was a wooden 
tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell 
all about him, but that's rotten and gone too," 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the begin- 
ning of the war; some say he was killed at the 
storming of Stony Point — others say he was 
drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's 
Nose. I don't know— he never came back 
again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

"He went oif to the wars, too; was a great 
militia general, and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these 
sad changes in his home and friends, and find- 
ing himself thus alone in the world. Every 
answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such 
enormous lapses of time, and of matters which 
he could not understand: war — Congress — 
Stony Point — he had no courage to ask after 
any more friends, but cried out in despair, 
"Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or 
three, "oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle 
yonder, leaning against the tree." 



72 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Rip looked, and behold a precise counterpart 
of himself as he went up the mountain ; ap- 
parently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The 
poor fellow was now completely confounded. 
He doubted his own identity, and whether he 
was himself or another man. In the midst of 
his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat 
demanded who he was, and what was his 
name? 

"God knows!" exclaimed he at his wit's 
end; "I'm not myself — I'm somebody else — 
that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else, 
got into my shoes^I was myself last night, 
but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've 
changed my gun, and everything's changed, 
and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my 
name, or who I am!" 

The bystanders began now to look at each 
other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their 
fingers against their foreheads. There was a 
whisper, also, about securing the gun, and 
keeping the old fellow from doing mischief ; 
at the very suggestion of which, the self-im- 
portant man with the cocked hat retired with 
some precipitation. At this critical moment a 
fresh, comely woman passed through the 
throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. 
She had a chubby child in her arms, which, 
frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, 
Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old 
man won't hurt you." The name of the child, 
the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, 
all awakened a train of recollections in his 
mind. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 73 

"What is your name, my good woman?" 
asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier. " 

"And your father's name?" 

"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his 
name, but it's twenty years since he went away 
from home with his gun, and never has been 
heard of since, — his dog came home without 
him ; but whether he shot himself, or was car- 
ried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I 
was then but a little girl. ' ' 

Rip had but one more question to ask; but 
he put it with a faltering voice : 

"Where's your mother?" 

Oh, she, too, had died but a short time 
since ; she broke a blood vessel in a fit of pas- 
sion at a New England pedler. 

There was a drop of comfort at least in this 
intelligence. The honest man could contain 
himself no longer. He caught his daughter 
and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" 
cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old 
Rip Van Winkle now — Does nobody know poor 
Rip Van Winkle?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tot- 
tering out from among the crowd, put her hand 
to her brow, and peering under it in his face 
for a moment exclaimed, "Sure enough, it is 
Rip Van Winkle — it is himself. Welcom.e home 
again, old neighbor. Why, where have you 
been these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the Vv-hole 
twenty years had been to him but as one night. 
The neighbors stared when they heard it ; some 

6 Sketch Book 



74 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

were seen to wink at each other, and put their 
tongues in their cheeks; and the self-impor- 
tant man in the cocked hat, who, when the 
alarm was over, had returned to the field, 
screwed down the corners of his mouth, and 
shook his head — upon which there was a gen- 
eral shaking of the head throughout the assem- 
blage. 

It was determined, however, to take the 
opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was 
seen slowly advancing up the road. He was 
a descendant of the historian of that name, 
who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the 
province. Peter was the most ancient inhabi- 
tant of the village, and well versed in all the 
wonderful events and traditions of the neigh- 
borhood. He recollected Rip at once, and cor- 
roborated his story in the most satisfactory 
manner. He assured the company that it was 
a fact, handed down from his ancestor, the his- 
torian, that the Kaatskill mountains had 
always been haunted by strange beings. That 
it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hud- 
son, the first discoverer of the river and 
country, kept a kind of vigil there every 
twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon : 
being permitted in this way to revisit the 
scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian 
eye upon the river and the great city called by 
his name. That his father had once seen 
them in their old Dutch dresses playing at 
ninepins in the hollow of the mountain; and 
that he himself had heard, one summer after- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 75 

noon, the sound of their balls, like distant 
peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company 
broke up, and returned to the more important 
concerns of the election. Rip's daughter 
took him home to live with her; she had a 
snug, well-furnished house, and a stout 
cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recol- 
lected for one of the urchins that used to climb 
upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who 
was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against 
the tree, he was employed to work on the 
farm ; but evinced an hereditary disposition 
to attend to anything else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; 
he soon found many of his former cronies, 
though all rather the worse for the wear and 
tear of time; and preferred making friends 
among the rising generation, with whom he 
soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and having 
arrived at that happy age when a man can be 
idle with impunity, he took his place once 
more on the bench, at the inn door, and was 
reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the vil- 
lage, and a chronicle of the old times "before 
the war. " It was some time before he could 
get into the regular track of gossip, or could 
be made to comprehend the strange events 
that had taken place during his torpor. How 
that there had been a revolutionary war — 
that the country had thrown off the yoke of 
old England — and that, instead of being a sub- 
ject to his Majesty George the Third, he was 



76 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

now a free citizen of the United States. Rip 
in fact was no politician ; the changes of states 
and empires made but little impression on 
him ; but there was one species of despotism 
under which he had long groaned and that was 
— petticoat government. Happily, that was 
at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke 
of matrimony, and could go in and out when- 
ever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny 
of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name 
was mentioned, however, he shook his head, 
shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; 
which might pass either for an expression of 
resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliver- 
ance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger 
that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was 
observed, at first, to vary on some points 
every time he told it, which was, doubtless, 
owing to his having so recently awaked. It 
at last settled down precisely to the tale I have 
related, and not a man, woman, or child in 
the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some 
always pretended to doubt the reality of it, i 
and insisted that Rip had been out of his head,' 
and that this was one point on which he 
always remained flighty. The old Dutch in- 
habitants, however, almost universally gave it 
full credit Even to this day, they never 
hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon 
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick 
Hudson and his crew are at their game of 
ninepins; and it is a common wish of all hen- 
pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 77 

life hangs heavy on their hands, that they 
might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van 
Winkle's flagon. 

Note. — The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had 
been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a httle Ger- 
man superstition about the Emperor Frederick "der 
Rothbart" and the Kypphauser mountain; the sub- 
joined note, however, which he had appended to the 
tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his 
usual fidelity. 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible 
to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I 
know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlemeats to have 
been very subject to marvelous events and appear- 
ances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories 
than this, in the villages along the' Hudson; all ot' 
which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. 
I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, 
when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, 
and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other 
point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse 
to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a certifi- 
cate on the subject taken before a country justice, and 
signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. 
The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 

"D. K." 

Postscript. — The following are traveling notes from 
a memorandum -book of Mr. Knickerbocker: 

The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always 
been a region full of fable. The Indians considered 
them the abode of spirits, who influenced the weather, 
spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and 
sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled 
by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She 
dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskill s, and had 
charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut 
them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons 
in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In 
times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would 
spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning 



78 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

dew, and send them off from the crest of the motin- 
tain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to 
float in the air ; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, 
they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to 
spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an 
inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would 
brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of 
them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; 
and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! 

In old times, says the Indian traditions, there was a 
kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest 
recesses of the Catskill mountains, and took a mischiev- 
ous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexa- 
tions upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume 
the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer; lead the bewil- 
dered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and 
among ragged rocks, and then spring off v/ith a loud 
lie! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a bettling 
precipice or raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It 
is a great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the moun- 
tains, and, from the flowering vines which clamber 
about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its 
neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden 
Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of 
the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the 
sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the sur- 
face. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, 
insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his 
game within its precincts. Once upon a time, how- 
ever, a hunter who had lost his way penetrated to the 
Garden Rock, where he beheld a number of gourds 
placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized 
tind made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he 
let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed 
forth, which washed him away and swept him down 
precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the 
stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to 
flow to the present day, being the identical stream 
known by the name of the Kaaterskill. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 79 



ENGLISH WRITERS* ON AMERICA. 

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant 
nation, rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, 
and shaking her invincible locks ; methinks I see her as 
an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her 
endazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam. — Milton on 
the Liberty of the Press. 

It is with feelings of deep regret that I ob- 
serve the literary animosity daily growing up 
between England and America. Great curi- 
osity has been awakened of late with respect 
to the United States, and the London press 
has teemed with volumes of travels through 
the Republic; but they seem intended to dif- 
fuse error rather thna knowledge ; and so suc- 
cessful have they been, that, notwithstanding 
the constant intercourse between the nations, 
there is no people concerning whom the great 
mass of the British public have less pure infor- 
mation, or entertain more numerous preju- 
dices. 

English travelers are the best and the worst 
in the world. Where no motives of pride or 
interest intervene, none can equal them for 
profound and philosophical views of society, or 
faithful and graphical description of external 
objects; but when either the interest or repu- 
tation of their own country comes in collision 
with that of another, they go to the opposite 



80 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

extreme, and forget their usual probity and 
candor, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, 
and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and 
accurate, the more remote the country de- 
scribed. I would place implicit confidence in 
an Englishman's description of the regions 
beyond the cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown 
islands in the Yellow Sea; of the interior of 
India ; or of any other tract which other travel- 
ers might be apt to picture out with the illu- 
sions of their fancies. But I would cautiously 
receive his account of his immediate neigh- 
bors, and of those nations with which he is in 
habits of most frequent intercourse. However 
I might be disposed to trust his probity, I dare 
not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our 
country to be visited by the worst kind of 
English travelers. When men of philosophi- 
cal spirit and cultivated minds have been sent 
from England to ransack the poles, to pene- 
trate the deserts, and to study the manners 
and customs of barbarous nations, with which 
she can have no permanent intercourse of 
profit or pleasure; it has been left to the 
broken-down tradesman, the Scheming adven- 
turer, the wandering mechanic, the Manches- 
ter and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles 
respecting America. From such sources she 
is content to receive her information respect- 
ing a countr}^ in a singular state of moral and 
physical development ; a country in which one 
of the greatest political experiments in the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 81 

history of llie world is now performing ; and 
w^hich presents the most profound and momen- 
tous studies to the statesman and the philoso- 
pher. 

That such men should give prejudical 
accounts of Am.erica, is not a matter of sur- 
prise. The themes it off ers for contemplation, 
are too vast and elevated for their capacities. 
The national character is yet in a state of fer- 
mentation ; it may have its frothiness and sedi- 
ment, but its ingredients are sound and whole- 
some ; it has already given proofs of powerful 
and generous qualities; and the whole promises 
to settle dov/n into something substantially 
excellent. But the causes which are operating 
to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily in- 
dications of admirable properties, are all lost 
upon these purblind observers; who are only 
affected by the little asperities incident to its 
present situation. They are capable of judg- 
ing only of the surface of things ; of those mat- 
ters which come in contact with their private 
interests and personal gratifications. They 
miss some of the snug conveniences and petty 
comforts which belong to an old, highly-fin- 
ished, and over-populous state of society; 
where the ranks of useful labor are crowded, 
and many earn a painful and servile subsist- 
ence, by studying the very caprices of appetite 
and self-indulgence. These minor comforts, 
how^ever, are all-important in the estimation 
of narrow minds ; which either do not perceive, 
or will not acknowledge, that they are more 



82 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

than counterbalanced among us, by great and 
generally diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed 
in some unreasonable expectation of sudden 
gain. They may have pictured America to 
themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver 
abounded, and the natives were lacking in 
sagacity, and where they were to become 
strangely and suddenly rich, in some unfore- 
seen but easy manner. The same weakness 
of mind that indulges absurd expectations, 
produces petulance in disappointment. Such 
persons become embittered against the country 
on finding that there, as everywhere else, a 
man must sow before he can reap ; must win 
wealth by industry and talent; and must con- 
tend with the common difficulties of nature, 
and the shrewdness of an intelligent and en- 
terprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed 
hospitality, or from the prompt disposition to 
cheer and countenance the stranger, preva- 
lent among my countrymen, they may have 
been treated with unwonted respect in Amer- 
ica; and, having been accustomed all their 
lives to consider themselves below the surface 
of good society, and brought up in a servile 
feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant, 
on the common boon of civility ; they attribute 
to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; 
and underrate a society where there are no 
artificial distinctions, and where, by any chance, 
such individuals as themselves can rise to con- 
sequence. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 83 

One would suppose, however, that informa- 
tion coming from such sources, on a subject 
where the truth is so desirable, would be re- 
ceived with caution by the censors of the press; 
that the motives of these men, their veracity, 
their opportunities of inquiry and observation, 
and their capacities for judging correctly, would 
be rigorously scrutinized, before their evidence 
was admitted, in such sweeping extent, 
against a kindred nation. The very reverse, 
however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking 
instance of human inconsistency. Nothing 
can surpass the vigilance with which English 
critics will examine the credibility of the trav- 
eler who publishes an account of some distant 
and comparatively unimportant country. 
How warily will they compare the measure- 
ments of a pyramid or the description of a 
ruin ; and hov/ sternly will they censure any in- 
accuracy in these contributions of merely curi- 
ous knowledge, while they will receive, with 
eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross 
misrepresentations of coarse and obscure writ- 
ers, concerning a country with which their 
own is placed in the most important and deli- 
cate relations. Nay, they will even make these 
apocryphal volumes text-books, on which to 
enlarge, with a zeal and an ability worthy of a 
more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and 
hackneyed topic; nor should I have adverted 
to it, but for the undue interest apparently 
taken in it by my countrymen, and certain in- , 
jurious effects which I apprehend it might pro- 



84 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

duce upon the national feeling. We attach too 
much consequence to these attacks. They can- 
not do us any essential injury. The tissue of 
misrepresentations attempted to be woven 
round us, are like cobwebs woven round the 
limbs of an infant giant. Our country contin- 
ually outgrows them. One falsehood after an- 
other falls off of itself. We have but to live 
on, and every day we live a whole volume of 
refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if we 
could for a moment suppose their great minds 
stooping to so unworthy a combination, could 
not conceal our rapidly growing importance 
and matchless prosperity. They could not 
conceal that these are owing, not merely to 
physical and local, but also to moral causes— to 
the political liberty, the general diffusion of 
knowledge, the prevalence of sound, moral, 
and religious principles, which give force and 
sustained energy to the character of a people, 
and which, in fact, have been the acknowl- 
edged and wonderful supporters of their own 
national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the 
aspersions of England? Why do we suffer our- 
selves to be so affected by the contumely she 
has endeavored to cast upon us? It is not in 
the opinion of England alone that honor lives, 
and reputation has its being. The world at 
large is the arbiter of a nation's fame: with 
its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, 
. and from their collective testimony is national 
glory or national disgrace established. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 85 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively 
of but little importance whether England does 
us justice or not; it is, perhaps, of far more 
importance to herself. She is instilling anger 
and resentment into the bosom of a youthful 
nation, to grow with its growth, and strength- 
en with its strength. If in America, as some 
of her writers are laboring to convince her, 
she is hereafter to find an invidious rival, and 
a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writ- 
ers for having provoked rivalship, and irritated 
hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading 
influence of literature at the present day, and 
how much the opinions and passions of man- 
kind are under its control. The mere contests 
of the sword are temporary ; their wounds are 
but in the flesh, and it is the pnde of the gen- 
erous to forgive and forget them ; but the slan- 
ders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they rankle 
longest in the noblest spirits; they dwell ever 
present in the mind, and render it morbidly 
sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is 
but seldom that any one overt act produces hos- 
tilities between twomations; there exists, most 
commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will, a 
predisposition to take offence. Trace these to 
their cause, and how often will they be found 
to originate in the mischievous effusions of 
mercenary writers, who, secure in their closets 
and for ignominious bread, concoct and circu- 
late the venom that is to inflame the generous 
and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this 
point; for it applies most emphatically to our 



86 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

particular case. Over no nation does the press 
hold a more absolute control than over the peo- 
ple of America; for the universal education of 
the poorest classes makes every individual a 
reader. There is nothing published in Eng- 
land on the subject of our country, that does 
not circulate through every part of it. There 
is not a calumny dropt from an English pen, 
nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an Eng- 
lish statesman, that does not go to blight good- 
will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. 
Possessing, then, as England does, the foun- 
tain-head whence the literature of the language 
flows, how completely is it in her power, and 
how truly is it her duty, to make it the medi- 
um of amiable and magnanimous feeling — a> 
stream where the two nations might meet to- 
gether and drink in peace and kindness. 
Should she, however, persist in turning it to 
waters of bitterness, the time may come when 
she may repent her folly. The present friend- 
ship of America may be of but little moment 
to her; but the future destinies of that country 
do not admit of a doubt; over those of Eng- 
land, there lower some shadows of uncertainty. 
Should, then, a day of gloom arrive — should 
those reverses overtake her, from which the 
proudest empires have not been exempt — she 
may look back with regret at her infatuation, 
in repulsing from her side a nation she might 
have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroy- 
ing her only chance for real friendship beyond 
the boundaries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 87 

that the people of the United States are 
inimical to the parent country. It is one of the 
errors which have been diligently propagated 
by designing writers. There is, doubtless 
considerable hostility, and a general soreness 
at the illiberality of the English press; but, 
collectively speaking, the propossessions of the 
people are strongly in favor of England. 
Indeed, at one time they amounted, in many 
parts of the Union, to an absurd degree of 
bigotry. The bare name of Englishman was 
a passport to the confidence and hospitality of 
every family, and too often gave a transient 
currency to the worthless and the ungrateful. 
Throughout the country, there was something 
of enthusiasm connected with the idea of Eng- 
land. We looked to it with a hollowed feeling 
of tenderness and veneration, as the land of 
our forefathers — the august repository of the 
monuments and antiquities of our race — the 
birthplace and mausoleum of the sages and 
heroes of our paternal history. After our own 
country, there was none in whose glory we 
more delighted — none whose good opinion we 
were more anxious to possess — none toward 
which our hearts yearned with such throbbings 
of warm consanguinity. Even during the late 
war, whenever there was the least opportunity 
for kind feelings to spring forth, it was the 
delight of the generous spirits of our country 
to show that, in the midst of hostilities, they 
still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. 
Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden 
band of kindred sympathies, so rare between 



86 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

nations, to be broken forever?— Perhaps it is 
for the best — it may dispel an allusion which 
might have kept us in mental vassalage; 
which might have interfered occasionally with 
our true interests, and prevented the growth 
of proper national pride. But it is hard to 
give up the kindred tie ! and there are feel- 
ings dearer than interest — closer to the heart 
than pride — that will still make us cast back 
a look of regret as we wander farther and farther 
from the paternal roof, and lament the way- 
wardness of the parent that would repel the 
affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as 
the conduct of England m.ay be in this system 
of aspersion, recrimination on our part would 
be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt 
and spirited vindication of our country, or the 
keenest castigation of her slanderers — but I 
allude to a disposition to retaliate in kind, to 
retort sarcasm and inspire prejudice, which 
seems to be spreading widely among our 
writers. Let us gu*ard particularly against 
such a temper; for it would double the evil, 
instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is 
so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse and 
sarcasm; but it is a paltry and an unprofitable 
contest. It is the alternative of a morbid 
mind, fretted into petulance, rather than 
warmed into indignation. If England is 
willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, 
or the rancorous animosities of politics, to 
deprave the integrity of her press, and poison 
the fountain of public opinion, let us beware 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 89 

of her example. She may deem it her interest 
to diffuse error, and engender antipathy., for 
the purpose of checking emigration : we have 
ho purpose of the kind to serve. Neither 
have we any spirit of national jealousy to 
gratify; for as yet, in all our rivalships with 
England, we are the rising and the gaining 
party. There can be no end to answer, there- 
fore, but the gratification of resentment — a 
mere spirit of retaliation — and even that is 
impotent. Our retorts are never republished 
in England ; they fall short, therefore, of their 
aim ; but they foster a querulous and peevish 
temper among our writers; they sour the 
sweet flow of our early literature, and sow 
thorns and brambles among its blossoms. 
What is still worse, they circulate through our 
own country, and, as far as they have effect, 
excite virulent national prejudices. This last 
is the evil most especially to be deprecated. 
"Governed, as we are, entirel}^ by public 
opinion, the utmost care should be taken to 
preserve the purity of the public mind. Knowl- 
edge is power, and truth is knowledge ; who- 
ever, therefore, knowingly propagates a 
prejudice, wilfully saps the foundation of his 
country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above^ all other 
men, should be candid and dispassionate* 
They are, individually, portions of the sover- 
eign mind and sovereign will, and should be 
enabled to come to all questions of national 
concern with calm and unbiassed judgments. 
From the peculiar nature of our relations witli 



90 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

England, we must have more frequent ques- : 
tions of a difficult and delicate character with 
her, than with any other nation, — questions; 
that affect the most acute and excitable feel- i 
ings: and as, in the adjustment of these, our i 
national measures must ultimately be deter- ' 
mined by national measures must ultimately I 
be determined by popular sentiment, we cannot 
be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all 
latent passion or prepossession. 

Opening-, too, as we do, an asylum for 
strangers from every portion of the earth, we 
should receive all with impartiality. It should 
be our pride to exhibit an example of one 
nation, at least, destitute of national antipa- 
thies, and exercising, not merely the overt 
acts of hospitality, but those more rare and 
noble courtesies which spring from liberality 
of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prej- 
udices? They are the inveterate diseases of 
old countries, contracted in rude and ignorant 
ages, when nations knew but little of each 
other, and looked beyond their own boun- 
daries with distrust and hostility. We, on the 
contrary, have sprung into national existence 
in an enlightened and philosophic age, when 
the different parts of the habitable world, and 
the various branches of the human family, 
have been indefatigably studied and made 
known to each other: and we forego the 
advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off 
the national prejudices, as we would the local 
superstitions, of the old world. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 91 

But above all let us not be influenced by any 
angry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the 
perception of what is really excellent and 
amiable in the English character. We are a 
young people, necessarily an imitative one, and 
must take our examples and models, in a 
great degree, from the existing nations of 
Europe. There is no country more worthy of 
our study than England. The spirit of her 
constitution is most analogous to ours. The 
manners of her people — their intellectual 
activity — their freedom of opinion — their 
habits of thinking on those subjects which con- 
cern the dearest interests and most sacred 
charities of private life, are all congenial to 
the American character; and, in fact, are all 
intrinsically excellent: for it is in the moral 
feeling of the people that the deep founda- 
tions of British prosperity are laid ; and how- 
ever the superstructure may be time-worn, or 
overrun by abuses, there must be something 
solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, 
and stable in the structure of an edifice that so 
long has towered unshaken amidst the tempests 
of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, 
discarding all feelings of irritation, and dis- 
daining to retaliate the illiberality of British 
authors, to speak of the English nation with- 
out prejudice, and with determined candor. 
While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry 
with which some of our countrymen admire 
and imitate everything English, merely 
because it is English, let them frankly point 



92 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

out what is really worthy of approbation. We 
may thus place England before us as a per- 
petual volume of reference, wherein are 
recorded sound deductions from ages of experi- 
ence; and while we avoid the errors and 
absurdities which may have crept into the 
page, we may draw thence golden maxims of 
practical wisdom, w^herewith to strengthen and 
to embellish our national character. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 93 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 

Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man. 
Friendly co thought, to virtue and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

— Cowper. 

The stranger who would form a correct 
opinion of the English character, must not 
confine his observations to the metropolis. He 
must go forth into the country; he must 
sojourn in villages and hamlets; he must visit 
castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages; he must 
wander through parks and gardens; along 
hedges and green lanes; he must loiter about 
country churches ; attend wakes and fairs, and 
other rural festivals ; and cope with the people 
in all their conditions, and all their habits and 
humors. 

In some countries, the large cities absorb the 
wealth and fashion of the nation ; they are the 
only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent 
society, and the country is inhabited almost 
entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on 
the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gather- 
ing-place, or general rendezvous, of the polite 
classes, where they devote a small portion of 
the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, 
and, having indulged this kind of carnival, 
return again to the apparently more congenial 



94 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

habits of rural life. The various orders of 
society are therefore diffused over the whole 
surface of the kingdom, and the more retired 
neighborhoods afford specimens of the differ- 
ent ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted 
with the rural feeling. They possess a quick 
sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a 
keen relish for the pleasures and employ- 
ments of the country. This passion seems 
inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of 
cities, born and brought up among brick walls 
and bustling streets, enter with facility into 
rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupa- 
tion. The merchant has his snug retreat in the 
vicinity of the metropolis, where he often dis- 
plays as much pride and zeal in the cultivation 
of his flower garden, and the maturing of his 
fruits, as he does in the conduct of his busi- 
ness, and the success of a commercial enter- 
prise. Even those less fortunate individuals, 
who are doomed to pass their lives in the 
midst of din and traffic, contrive to have some- 
thing that shall remind them of the green 
aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy 
quarters of the city, the drawing-room- 
window resembles frequently a bank of 
flowers; every spot capable of vegetation has 
its grass-plot and flower-bed; and every square 
its mimic park. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town, 
are apt to form an unfavorable opinion of his 
social character. He is either absorbed in 
business, or distracted by the thousand engage- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 95 

ments that dissipate time, thought, and feel- 
ing, in this huge metropolis. He has, there- 
fore, too commonly, a look of hurry and 
abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is 
on the point of going somewhere else; at the 
moment he is talking on one. subject, his mind 
is wandering to another; and while paying a 
friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall 
economize time so as to pay the other visits 
allotted to the morning. An immense metro- 
polis, like London, is calculated to make men 
selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and 
transient meetings, they can but deal briefly in 
commonplaces. They present but the cold 
superfices of character — its rich and genial 
qualities have no time to be warmed into a 
flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman 
gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks 
loose gladly from the cold formalities and 
negative civilities of town ; throws off his habits 
of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free- 
hearted. He manages to collect round him all 
the conveniences and elegancies of polite life, 
and to banish its restraints. His country-seat 
abounds with every requisite, either for studi- 
ous retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural 
exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, 
dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are 
at hand. He puts no constraint, either upon 
his guests or himself, but, in the true spirit of 
hospitality, provides the means of enjoyment, 
and leaves every one to partake according to 
his inclination. 



96 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of 
land, and in what is called landscape gardenr 
ing, is unrivaled. They have studied Nature; 
intently, and discovered an exquisite sense of; 
her beautiful forms and harmonious combinai^3, 
tions. Those charms which, in other countriesr/r 
she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled, 
round the haunts of domestic life. They seem: 
to have caught her coy and furtive graces, and; 
spread them, like witchery, about their rur^l; 
abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than tlie mag- 
nificence of English park scenery. Vast lawns; 
that extend like sheets of vivid green, with', 
here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heap-- 
iug up rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp 
of groves and woodland glades, with the deer' 
trooping in silent herds across them ; the hare, 
bounding away to the covert; or the pheasant, 
suddenly bursting upon the wing. The brook, 
taught to wind in natural meanderings, or 
expand into a glassy lake — the sequestered pool, 
reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellowd 
leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roam-^: 
ing fearlessly about its limpid waters; while 
some rustic temple, or sylvan statue, growii; 
green and dank with age, gives an air of classic. 
sanctity to the seclusion. ;-:'; 

These are but a few of the features of park:: 
scenery; but what most delights me, is the. 
creative talent with w^hich the English decorate., 
the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The( 
rudest habitation, the most unpromising and. 
scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Eng-r: 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 97 

lishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. 
With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at 
once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his 
mind the future landscape. The sterile spot 
grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet 
the operations of art which produce the effect 
are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing 
and training of some trees; the cautious prun- 
ing of others; the nice distribution of flowers 
and plants of tender and graceful foliage; the 
.introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; 
the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, 
or silver gleam of water ; — all these are man- 
aged with a delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet 
assiduity, like the magic touchings with which 
a painter finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refine- 
ment in the country, has diffused a degree of 
taste and elegance in rural economy that 
descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, 
with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of 
ground, attends to their embellishment. The 
trim hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the 
little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the 
woodbine trained up against the wall, and 
hanging its blossoms about the lattice; the pot 
of flowers in the window; the holly, provi- 
dently planted about the house, to cheat winter 
of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance 
of green summer to cheer the fireside ; all 
these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing 
down from high sources, and pervading the 
lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, 

7 Sketch Book 



98 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it 
must be the cottage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher 
classes of the English has had a great and 
salutary effect '^ upon the national character. I 
do not know a finer race of men than the Eng- 
lish gentleman. Instead of the softness and 
effeminacy which characterize the men of rank 
in most countries, they exhibit a union of ele* 
gance and strength, a robustness of fram.e and 
freshness of complexion, which I am inclined 
to attribute to their living so much in 
the open air, and pursuing so eagerly 
the invigorating recreations of the country. 
The hardy exercises produce also a health- 
ful tone of mind and spirits, and a manli- 
ness and simplicity of manners, which even 
the follies and dissipations- of the town cannot 
easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. 
In the country, too, the different orders of 
society seem to approach more freely, to be 
more disposed to blend and operate favorably 
upon each other. The distinctions between 
them do not appear to be so marked and impas- 
sable as in the cities. The manner in which 
property has been distributed into small estates 
and farms has established a regular gradation 
from the noblemen, through the classes of 
gentry, small landed proprietors, and sub- 
stantial farmers, down to the laboring peas- 
antry; and while it has thus banded the 
extremes of society together, has infused into 
each intermediate rank a spirit of independ- 
ence. This, it must be confessed, is not so 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 99 

universally the case at present as it was 
formerly; the larger estates having, in late 
years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in 
some parts of the country, almost annihilated 
the sturdy race of small farmers. These, how- 
ever, I believe, are but casual breaks m the 
general system I have mentioned. 

In rural occupation, there is nothing mean 
and debasing. It leads a man forth among 
scenes of natural grandeur and beauty; it 
leaves him to the workings of his own mind, 
operated upon by the purest and most elevat- 
ing of external influences. Such a man may 
be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. 
The man of refinement, therefore, finds noth- 
ing revolting in an intercourse with the lower 
orders in rural life, as he does when he casu- 
ally mingles with the lower orders of cities. 
Relays aside his distance and reserve, and is 
glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to 
enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of 
common life. Indeed, the very amusements 
of the country bring men more and more 
together; and the sound of hound and horn 
blend all feelings into harmony. I believe 
this is one great reason why the nobility and 
gentry are more popular among the inferior 
orders in England than they are in any other 
country; and why the latter have endured so 
many excessive pressures and extremities, 
without repining more generally at the unequal 
distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic 
society may also be attributed the rural feeling 



100 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

that runs through British literature; the fre^ 
quent use of illustrations from rural life ; those 
incomparable descriptions of Nature, that 
abound in the British poets — that have contin- 
ued down from "The Flower and the Leaf, " 
of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets 
all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy 
landscape. The pastoral writers of other coun- 
tries appear as if they had paid Nature an occa- 
sional visit, and become acquainted with her 
general charms; but the British poets have 
lived and reveled with her — they have wooed 
her in her most secret haunts — the have 
watched her minutest caprices. A spray could 
not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not 
rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could 
not patter in the stream — a fragrance could 
not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy 
unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it 
has been noticed by these impassioned and del- 
icate observers, and wrought up into some 
beautiful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds 
to rural occupations has been wonderful on the 
face of the country. A great part of the island 
is rather level, and would be monotonous, 
w^ere it not for the charms of culture; but it is 
studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles 
and palaces, and embroidered with parks and 
gardens. It does not abound in grand and 
sublime prospects, but rather in little home 
scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. 
Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cot- 
tage is a picture ; and as the roads are contin- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 101 

ually winding, and the view is shut in by groves 
and hedges, the eye is delighted by a contin- 
ual succession of small landscapes of captivat- 
ing loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scen- 
ery, is the moral feeling that seems to pervade 
it. It is associated in the mind with ideas of 
order, of quiet, of sober well-established prin- 
ciples, of hoary usage and reverend custom. 
Everything seems to be the growth of ages of 
regular and peaceful existence. The old 
church of remote architecture, with its low, 
massive portal; its Gothic tower; its windows 
rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupu- 
lous preservation; its stately monuments of 
warriors and worthies of the olden time, ances- 
tors of the present lords of the soil ; its tomb- 
stones, recording successive generations of 
sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough 
the same fields, and kneel at the same altar ; — 
the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly 
antiquated, but repaired and altered in the 
tastes of various ages and occupants ; — the stile 
and foot-path leading from the churc]i-5^ard, 
across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge- 
rows, according to an immemorial right of 
V\^ay ; — the neighboring village, with its vener- 
able cottages, its public green sheltered by 
trees, under which the forefathers of the pres- 
ent race have sported;— the antique family 
mansion, standing apart in some little rural 
domain, but looking down with a protecting 
air on the surrounding scene ; — all these com- 
mon features of English landscape evince a 



i;2 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

calm and settled security, a hereditary trans- 
mission of homebred virtues and local attach- 
ments, that speak deeply and touchingly for 
the moral character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing- sight, of a Sunday morning, 
when the bell is sending its sober melody 
across the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry 
in their best finery, with ruddy faces, and mod- 
est cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along 
the green lanes to church ; but it is still more 
pleasing to see them in the evenings, gather- 
ing about their cottage doors, and appearing 
to exult in the humble corriforts and embellish- 
ments which their own hands have spread 
around them. 

It is this sweet home-feeling, this sett-led re- 
pose of affection in the domestic scene, that is, 
after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues 
and purest enjoyments; and I cannot close 
these desultory remarks better, than by quot- 
ing the words of a modern English poet, who 
has depicted it with remarkable felicity : 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 

The city dome, the villa crowned with shade. 

But chief from modest mansions numberless. 

In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life. 

Down to the cottaged vale, and. straw-roof 'd shed; 

This western isle has long been famed for scenes 

Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ; 

Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 

(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 

Can center in a little quiet nest 

All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 

A world enjoyed ; that wants no witnesses 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 103 

But its own sharers, and approving Heaven ; 
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft. 
Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.* 

*From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, 
by the Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M. 



104 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

— Middleton. 

It is a common practice with those who have 
outlived the susceptibility of early feeling, or 
have been brought up in the gay heartlessness 
of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, 
and to treat the tales of romantic passion as 
mere fictions of novelists and poets. My ob- 
servations on human nature have induced me 
to think otherwise. They have convinced me 
that, however the surface of the character may 
be chilled and frozen by the cares of the 
world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the 
arts of society, still there are dormant fires 
lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, 
which, when once enkindled, become impet- 
uous, and are sometimes desolating in their 
effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the 
blind deity, and go to the full extent of his 
doctrines. Shall I confess it? — I believe in 
broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of 
disappointed love ! I do not, however, con- 
sider it a malady often fatal to my own sex ; 
but I firmly believe that it withers down many 
a lovely woman into an early grave. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 105 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. 
His nature leads him forth into the struggle 
and bustle of the world. Love is but the em- 
bellishment of his early life, or a song piped 
in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, 
for fortune, for space in the world's thought, 
and dominion over his fellow- men. But a 
woman's whole life is a history of the affec- 
tions. The heart is her world ; it is there her 
ambition strives for empire — it is there her 
avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends 
forth her sympathies on adventure; she em- 
barks her whole soul in the traffic of affection ; 
and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless — for 
it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man, the disappointment of love may 
occasion some bitter pangs; it wounds some 
feelings of tenderness — it blasts some prospects 
of felicity; but he is an active being — he may 
dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied 
occupation, or may plunge into the tide of 
pleasure; or, if the scene of disappointment 
be too full of painful associations, he can shift 
his abode at will, and taking, as it were, the 
wings of the morning, can "fly to the utter- 
most parts of the earth, and be at rest. ' ' 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a se- 
cltided, and meditative life. She is more the 
companion of her own thoughts and feelings; 
and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, 
where shall she look for consolation? Her lot 
is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her 
love, her heart is like some fortress that has 

8 Sketch Book 



106 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, 
and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how 
many soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely 
forms fade away into the tomb, and none can 
tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! 
As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and 
cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on 
its vitals — so is it the nature of woman to hide 
from the world the pangs of wounded affec- 
tion. The love of a delicate female is always 
shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she 
scarcely breathes it to herself ; but when other- 
wise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, 
and there lets it cower and brood among the 
ruins of her peace. With her, the desire of her 
heart has failed— the great charm of existence 
is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful ex- 
ercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the 
pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful 
currents through the veins. Her rest is broken 
— the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned 
by melancholy dreams — "dry sorrow drinks 
her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks 
under the slightest external injury. Look for 
her, after a little while, and you find friend- 
ship weeping over her untimely grave, and 
wondering that one, who but lately glowed 
with all the radiance of health and beauty, 
should so speedily be brought down to "dark- 
ness and the worm. " You will be told of some 
wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that 
laid her low ; — but no one knows of the mental 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 107 

malady which previously sapped her strength, 
and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and 
beauty of the grove; graceful in its form, 
bright in its foliage, but with the worm prey- 
ing at its heart. We find it suddenly wither- 
ing, when it should be most fresh and luxuri- 
ant. We see it drooping its branches to the 
earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted 
and perished away, it falls even in the stillness 
of the forest ; and as we muse over the beauti- 
ful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast 
or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with 
decay, 

I have seen many instances of women run- 
ning to waste and self-neglect, and disappear- 
ing gradually from the earth, almost as if they 
had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeat- 
edly fancied that I could trace their deaths 
through the various declensions of consump- 
tion, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until 
I reached the first symptom of disappointed 
love. But an instance of the kind was lately 
told to me ; the circumstances are well known 
in the country where they happened, and I 
shall but give them in the manner in which 
they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story 
of young E — , the Irish patriot; it was too 
touching to be soon forgotten. During the 
troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned, 
and executed, on a charge of treason. His 
fate made a deep impression on public sympa- 
thy. He was so young— so intelligent — so gen- 



108 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

erous — so brave — so everything that we are apt 
to like in a young man. His conduct under 
trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The 
noble indignation with which he rebelled the 
charge of treason against his country — the 
eloquent vindication of his name— and his pa- 
thetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour 
of condemnation, — all these entered deeply 
into every generous bosom, and even his ene- 
mies lamented the stern policy that dictated 
his execution. 

But there was one heart whose anguish it 
would be impossible to describe. In happier 
days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affec- 
tions of a beautiful and interesting girl, the 
daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. 
She loved him with the disinterested fervor of 
a woman's first and early love. When every 
worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when 
blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger 
darkened around his name, she loved him the 
more ardently for his very sufferings. If, 
then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even 
of his foes, what must have been the agony of 
her, whose whole soul was occupied by his im- 
age? Let those tell who have had the portals 
of the tomb suddenly closed between them and 
the being they most loved on earth — who have 
sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold 
and lonely world, whence all that was most 
lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! — so 
frightful, so dishonored! There was nothing 
for memory to dwell on that could soothe the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 109 

pang of separation — none of those tender, 
though melancholy circumstances which en- 
dear the parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow 
into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of 
heaven, to revive the heart in the pa;rting hour 
of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more deso- 
late, she had incurred her father's displeasure 
by her unfortunate attachment, and was an 
exile from the parental roof. But could the 
sympathy and kind offices of friends have 
reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by 
horror, she would have experienced no want 
of consolation, for the Irish are a people of 
quick and generous sensibilities. The most 
delicate and cherishing attentions were paid 
her by families of wealth and distinction. She 
was led into society, and they tried by all kinds 
of occupation and amusement to dissipate her 
grief, and wean her from the tragical story of 
her loves. But it was all in vain. There are 
some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch 
the soul — which penetrate to the vital seat of 
happiness — and blast it, never again to put 
forth bud or blossom. She never objected to 
frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as 
much alone there as in the depths of solitude ; 
walking about in a sad revery, apparently un- 
conscious of the world around her. She carried 
with her an inward woe that mocked at al^the 
blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not 
the song of the charmer, charm he never so 
wisely. ' ' 

The person who told me her story had seen 



110 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibi- 
tion of far-gone wretchedness more striking and 
painful than to meet it in such a scene. To 
find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and 
joyless, where all around is gay — to see it 
dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and look- 
ing so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in 
vain to cheat the poor heart into momentary 
forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling 
through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd 
with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself 
down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking 
about for some time with a vacant air, that 
showed her insensibility to the garish scene, 
she began, with the capricioasness of a sickly 
heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had 
an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was 
so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such 
a soul of wretchedness — that she drew a crowd, 
mute and silent, around her and melted every 
one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not 
but excite great interest in a country remark- 
able for enthusiasm. It completely won the 
heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses 
to her, and thought that one so true to the 
dead, could not but prove affectionate to the 
living. She declined his attentions, for her 
thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the 
memory of her former lover. He, however, 
persisted in his suit. He solicited not her ten- 
derness, but her esteem. He was assisted by 
her conviction of his worth, and her sense of 
her own destitute and dependent situation, for 



THE SKETCH BOOK. Ill 

she was existing on the kindness of friends. 
In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining 
her hand, though with the solemn assurance, 
that her heart was unalterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that 
a change of scene might wear out the remem- 
brance of early woes. She was an amiable 
and exemplary wife, and made an efiEort to be 
a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent 
and devouring melancholy that had entered 
into her very soul. She wasted away in a 
slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk 
into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished 
Irish poet, composed the following lines : 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing: 
Yet ^coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 
Every note which he loved awakening — 

Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 

He had lived for his love— for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 

When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 

From her own loved island of sorrow ! 



112 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 

if that severe doom of Synesius be true, — "It is a 
greater offence to steal dead men's labor, than their 
clothes," — what shall become of most writers? 

— Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I have often wondered at the extreme fecund- 
ity of the press, and how it comes to pass that 
so many heads, on which Nature seems to have 
inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem 
with voluminous productions. As a man 
travels on, however, in the journey of life, his 
objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is 
continually finding out some very simple cause 
for some great matter of marvel. Thus have 
I chanced, in my peregrinations about this 
great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene 
which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of 
the book-making craft, and at once put an end 
to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through 
the great saloons of the British Museum, with, 
that listlessness with which one is apt to saun- 
ter about a museum in warm weather; some- 
times lolling over the glass cases of minerals, 
sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an ' 
Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with 
nearly equal success, to comprehend the alle- 
gorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst 
I was gazing about in this idle way, my atten- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 113 

tion was attracted to a distant door, at the end 
of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but 
every now and then it would open, and some 
strange-favored being, generally clothed in 
black, would steal forth, and glide through the 
rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding 
objects. There was an air of mystery about 
this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I 
determined to attempt the passage of that 
strait, and to explore the unknown regions 
beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with 
all that facility with which the portals of 
enchanted castles yield to the adventurous 
knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious 
• chamber, surrounded with great cases of ven- 
erable books. Above the cases, and just under 
the cornice, were arranged a great number of 
black-looking portraits of ancient authors. 
About the room were placed long tables, with 
stands for reading and wTiting, at which sat 
many pale, studious personages, poring intently 
over dusty volumes, rumaging among mouldy 
manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their 
contents. A hushed stillness reigned through 
this mysterious apartment, excepting that you 
might hear the racing of pens over sheets of 
paper, and occasionally the deep sigh of one of 
these sages, as he shifted his position to turn 
over the page of an old folio; doubtless arising 
from that hollowness and flatulency incident to 
learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages 
would write something on a small slip of paper, 
and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would 



114 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

appear, take the paper in profound silence, 
glide out of the room, and return shortly- 
loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the 
other would fall, tooth and nail, with famished 
voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had 
happened upon a body of magi, deeply engaged 
in the study of occult sciences. The scene 
reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a phi- 
losopher shut up in an enchanted library, in the 
bosom of a mountain, which opened only once 
a year ; where he made the spirits of the place 
bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge 
so that at the end of the year, when the magic 
portal once more swung open on its hinges, he 
issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to 
be able to soar above the heads of the multi- 
tude, and to control the powers of Nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whis- 
pered to one of the familiars, as he was about 
to leave the room, and begged an interpreta- 
tion of the strange scene before me. A few 
words were sufficient for the purpose. I found 
that these mysterious personages, whom I had 
mistaken for magi, were principally authors, 
and were in the very act of manufacturing 
books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room of 
the great British Library, an immense collec- 
tion of volumes of all ages and languages, 
many of which are now forgotten, and most of 
which are seldom read: one of these seques- 
tered pools of obsolete literature to which mod- 
ern authors repair, and draw buckets full of 
classic lore, or "pure English undefiled," 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 115 

wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of 
thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat 
down in a corner, and watched the process of 
this book manufactory. I noticed one lean, 
bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the 
most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black 
letter. He was evidently constructing some 
work of profound erudition, that would be pur- 
chased by every man who wished to be thought 
learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his 
library, or laid open upon his table — but never 
read. I observed him, now and then, draw a 
large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and 
gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or whether 
he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion 
of the stomach, produced by much pondering 
over dry works, I leave to harder students than 
myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in 
bright-colored clothes, with a chirping, gossip- 
ing expression of countenance, who had all the 
appearance of an author on good terms with 
his bookseller. After considering him atten- 
tively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up 
of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well 
with the trade. I was curious to see how he 
manufactured his wares. He made more stir 
and show of business than any of the others ; 
dipping into various books, fluttering over the 
leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of 
one, a morsel out of another, "line upon line, 
precept upon precept, here a little and there a 
little." The contents of his book seemed to 



116 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' 
cauldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and 
there a thumb, toe of frog and blind worm's 
sting, with his own gossip poured in like 
"baboon's blood," to make the medley "slab 
and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering 
disposition be implanted in authors for wise 
purposes? may it not be the way in which 
Providence has taken care that the seeds of 
knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from 
age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of 
the works in which they were first produced? 
We see that Nature has wisely, though whim- 
sically provided for the conveyance of seeds 
from clime to clime, in the maws of certain 
birds; so that animals, which, in themselves, 
are little better than carrion, and apparently 
the lawless plunderers of the orchard and the 
corn-field, are, in fact. Nature's carriers to dis- 
perse and perpetuate her blessings. In like 
manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of 
ancient and obsolete authors are caught up by 
these flights of predatory writers, and cast 
forth, again to flourish and bear fruit in a 
remote and distant tract of time. Many of 
their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsy- 
chosis, and spring up under new forms. What 
vv^as formerly a ponderous history, revives in 
the shape of a romance — an old legend changes 
into a modern play — and a sober philosophical 
treatise furnishes the body for a whole series 
of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is 
in the clearing of our American woodlands- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 117 

where we burn down a forest of stately pines, 
a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place ; 
and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree 
mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a 
whole tribe of fungi. 

Let us not then, lament over the decay and 
oblivion into which ancient writers descend; 
they do not submit to the great law of Nature, 
which declares that all sublunary shapes of 
matter shall be limited in their duration, but 
which decrees, also, that their element shall 
never perish. Generation after generation, 
both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, 
but the vital principle is transmitted to poster- 
ity, and the species continue to flourish. 
Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and hav- 
ing produced a numerous progeny, in a good 
old age they sleep with their fathers, that is to 
say, with the authors who preceded them — 
and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling 
fancies I had leaned m)'' head against a pile of 
reverend folios. Whether it was owing to the 
soporific emanations for these works; or to the 
profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude 
arising from much wandering; or to an 
unlucky habit of napping at improper times 
and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, 
so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, how- 
ever, my imagination continued busy, and 
indeed the same scene continued before my 
mind's eye, only a little changed in some of 
the details. I dreamt that the chamber was 
still decorated with the portraits of ancient 



118 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

authors, but that the number was increased. 
The long tables had disappeared, and, in place 
of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, thread- 
bare throng, such as may be seen plying about 
the great repository of cast-off clothes, Mon- 
mouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a 
book, by one of those incongruities common to 
dreams, methought it turned into a garment 
of foreign or antique fashion, with which they 
proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, 
however, that no one pretended to clothe him- 
self from any particular suit, but took a sleeve 
from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a 
third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, 
while some of his original rags would peep out 
from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, 
whom I observed ogling several mouldy polem- 
ical writers through an eyeglass. He soon 
contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of 
one of the old fathers, and having purloined 
the gray beard of another, endeavored to look 
exceedingly wise ; but the smirking common- 
place of his countenance set at naught all the 
trappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking gen- 
tleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy 
garment with gold thread drawn out of several 
old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Eliza- 
beth. Another had trimmed himself magnifi- 
cently from an illuminated manuscript, had 
stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from 
**The Paradise of Dainty Devices," and having 
put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his 
head, strutted off with an exquisite air of vul- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 119 

gar elegance. A third, who was but of puny 
dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely 
with the spoils from several obscure tracts of 
philosophy, so that he had a very imposing 
front, but he was lamentably tattered in rear, 
and I perceived that he had patched his small- 
clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin 
author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it 
is true, who only helped themselves to a gem 
or so, which sparkled among their own orna- 
ments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, 
seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old 
writers, merely to imbibe their principles of 
taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I 
grieve to say, that too many were apt to array 
themselves, from top to toe, in the patchwork 
manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit 
to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and 
gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a vio- 
lent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural 
wanderings had been confined to the classic 
haunts of Primrose Hill, and the soltitudes of 
the Regent's Park. He had decked himself 
in wreaths and ribbons from all the old pasto- 
ral poets, and, hanging his head on one side, 
went about with a fantastical, lack-a-daisical 
air, "babbling about green fields." But the 
personage that most struck my attention was a 
pragmatical old gentleman in clerical robes, 
with a remarkably large and square but bald 
head. He entered the room wheezing and 
puffing, elbowed his wa}^ through the throng 
with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and, 



120 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, 
clapped it upon his head, and swept majesti. 
cally away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a 
cry suddenly resounded from every side, of 
"Thieves! thieves!" I looked, and lo! the 
portraits about the walls became animated! 
The old authors thrust out, first a head, then 
a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curi- 
ously for an instant upon the motley throng, 
and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to 
claim their rifled property. The scene of 
scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all 
description. The unhappy culprits endeavored 
in vain to escape with their plunder. On one 
side might be seen half a dozen old monks, 
stripping a modern professor ; on another, there 
was sad devastation carried into the ranks of 
modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and 
Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field 
like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson 
enacted more wonders than when a volunteer 
with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper 
little compiler of farragos mentioned some 
time since, he had arrayed himself in as many 
patches and colors as harlequin, and there was 
as fierce a contention of claimants about him, 
as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was 
grieved to see many men, to whom I had been 
accustomed to look up with awe and reverence, 
fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their 
nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by | 
the pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek 
grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sor 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 121 

affright with half a score of authors in full cry 
after him. They were close upon his haunches; 
in a twinkling off went his wig ; at every turn 
some strip of raiment was peeled away, until in 
a few moments, from his domineering pomp, 
he shrunk into a little, pursy, '*chopp'd bald 
shot," and made his exit with only a few tags 
and rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the ca- 
tastrophe of this learned Theban that I burst 
into an immoderate fit of laughter, which 
broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the 
scufBe were at an end. The chamber resumed 
its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk 
back into their picture- frames, and hung in 
shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, 
I found myself wide awake in my corner, with 
the whole assemblage of bookworms gazing at 
me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream 
had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound 
never before heard in that grave sanctuary, 
and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to 
electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me and 
demanded whether I had a card of admission; 
At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon 
found that the library was a kind of literary 
"^^preserve, " subject to game-laws, and that no 
one must presume to hunt there without spe- 
cial license and permission. In a word, I stood 
convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was 
glad to make a precipitate retreat, lest I should 
have a whole pack of authors let loose upon 



122 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



A ROYAL POET. 

Though your body be confined 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 
Nei|;her check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

—Fletcher. 

4 On a soft sunny morning in the genial 
month of May I made an excursion to Windsor 
Castle. It is a place full of storied and poeti- 
cal associations. The very external aspect of 
the proud old pile is enough to inspire high 
thought. It rears its irregular walls and mas- 
sive towers, like a mural crown around the 
brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner 
in the clouds, and looks down with a lordly air 
upon the surrounding world. 

On this morning, the weather was of that 
voluptuous vernal kind which calls forth all the 
latent romance of a man's temperament, filling 
his mind with music, and disposing him to 
quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wan- 
dering through the magnificent saloons and 
long echoing galleries of the castle, I passed 
with indifference by whole rows of portraits of 
warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the 
chamber where hang the likenesses of the 
beauties which graced the gay court of Charles 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 123 

the Second; and as I gazed upon them, de- 
picted with amorous, half-disheveled tresses, 
and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pen- 
cil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled 
me to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In 
traversing also the "large green courts," with 
sunshine beaming on the gray walls and glanc- 
ing along the velvet turf, my mind was en- 
grossed with the image of the tender, the gal- 
lant, but hapless Surrey, and his account of his 
loiterings about them in his stripling days, 
when enamoured of the Lady Geraldine — 

"With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

in this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I 
visited the ancient keep of the castle, where 
James the First of Scotland, the pride and 
theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for 
many years of his youth detained a prisoner of 
state. It is a large gray tower, that has stood 
the brunt of ages, and is still in good preserva- 
tion. It stands on a mound which elevates it 
above the other parts of the castle, and a 
great flight of steps leads to the interior. In 
the armory, a Gothic hall furnished with wea- 
pons of various kinds and ages, I was shown a 
coat of armor hanging against the wall, which 
had once belonged to James. Hence I was 
conducted up a staircase to a suite of apart- 
ments, of faded magnificence, hung with stor- 
ied tapestry, which formed his prison, and the 
scene of that passionate and fanciful armor, 



124 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

which has woven into the web of his story the 
magical hues of poetry and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfor- 
tunate prince is highly romantic. At the ten- 
der age of eleven, he was sent from home by 
his father, Robert III., and destined for the 
French court, to be reared under the eye of 
the French monarch, secure from the treachery 
and danger that surrounded the royal house of 
Scotland. It was his mishap, in the course of 
his voyage, to fall into the hands of the Eng- 
lish, and he was detained prisoner by Henry 
IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed be- 
tween the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the 
train of many sorrows and disasters, proved 
fatal to his unhappy father. *'The news," we 
are told, "was brought to him while at supper, 
and did so overwhelm him with grief that he 
was almost ready to give up the ghost into the 
hands of the servants that attended him. But 
being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained 
from all food, and in three days died of hunger 
and grief at Rothsay. "* 

James was detained in captivity above eight- 
een years ; but, though deprived of personal 
liberty, he was treated with the respect due to 
his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in 
all the branches of useful knowledge cultivated 
at that period, and to give him those mental 
and personal accomplishments deemed proper 
for a prince. Perhaps in this respect his irn- 

*Buchanan. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 125 

prisonment was an advantage, as it etiabled 
him to apply himself the more exclusively to 
his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that 
rich fund of knowledge and to cherish those 
elegant tastes which have given such a lustre 
to his memory. The picture drawn of him in 
early life by the Scottish historians is highly 
captivating, and seems rather the description 
of a hero of romance than of a character in real 
history. He was well learnt, we are told, "to 
fight with the sword, to joust, to tourney, to 
wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert 
mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute 
and harp, and sundry other instruments of 
music, and was expert in grammar, oratory, 
and poetry. "* 

With this combination of manly and delicate 
accomplishments, fitting him to shine both in 
active and elegant life, and calculated to give 
him an intense relish for joyous existence, it 
must have been a severe trial, in an age of 
bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time of 
his years in monotonous captivity. It was the 
good fortune of James, however, to be gifted 
with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited 
in his prison, by the choicest inspirations of 
the muse. Some minds corrode, and grow in- 
active, under the loss of personal liberty; 
others grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the 
nature of the poet to become tender and im- 
aginative in the loneliness of confinement. He 
banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, 

*Ballenden's translation of Hector Boyce. 



126 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul 
in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage. 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage ! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.* 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the im- 
agination, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable 
— that when the real world is shut out, it can 
create a world for itself, and, with a necroman- 
tic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and 
forms iand brilliant visions, to make solitude 
populous, and irradiate the gloom of the dun- 
geon. Such was the world of pomp and pa- 
geant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell 
at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid 
scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider 
"The King's Quair, "f composed by James 
during his captivity at Windsor, as another of 
those beautiful breakings forth of the soul 
from the restraint and gloom of the prison- 
house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the 
lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of 
Somerset, and a princess of the blood-royal of 
England, of whom he became enamoured in 
the course of his captivity. What gives it a 
peculiar value, is, that it may be considered a 
transcript of the royal bard's true feelings, 

*Roger L' Estrange. 

f Quair, an old term for book. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 127 

and the story of his real loves and fortunes. 
It is not often that sovereigns write poetry or 
that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the 
pride of a common man, to find a monarch 
thus suing, as it were, for admission into his 
closet, and seeking to win his favor by admin- 
istering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the 
honest equality of intellectual competition, 
which strips off air the trappings of factitious 
dignity, brings the candidate down to a level 
with his fellow-men, and obliges him to depend 
on his own native powers for distinction. It is 
curious, too, to get at the history of a mon- 
arch's heart, and to find the simple affections 
of human nature throbbing under the ermine. 
But James had learnt to be a poet before he was 
a king; he was schooled in adversity, and reared 
in the company of his own thoughts. Mon- 
archs have seldom time to parley with their 
hearts or to meditate their minds into poetry ; 
and had James been brought up amidst the 
adulation and gayety of a court, we should 
never, in all probability, have had such a poem 
as the "Quair. " 

I have been particularly interested by those 
parts of the poem which breathe his immediate 
thoughts concerning his situation, or which 
are connected with the apartment in the 
Tower. They have thus a personal and local 
charm, and are given with such circumstantial 
truth as to make the reader present with the 
captive in his prison and the companion of h'S 
meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his 



128 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

weariness of spirit, and of the incident which 
first suggested the idea of writing the poem. 
It was the still mid-watch of a clear moonlight 
night; the stars, he says, were twinkling as 
fire in the high vault of heaven, and "Cynthia 
rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius, " He lay 
in bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to 
beguile the tedious hours. The book he chose 
was Boetius' "Consolations of Philosophy, " a 
work popular among the writers of that day, 
and which had been translated by his great 
prototype, Chaucer. From the high eulogium 
in which he indulges, it is evident this was one 
of his favorite volumes while in prison; and, 
indeed, it is an admirable text-book for medi- 
tation tinder adversity. It is the legacy of a 
noble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrow 
and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in 
calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and 
the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, 
by which it was enabled to bear tip against the 
various ills of life. It is a talisman, which the 
unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, 
like the good King James, lay upon his nightly 
pillow. 

After closing the volume he turns its con- 
tents over in his mind, and gradually falls into 
a fit of musing on the fickleness of fortune, 
the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils 
that had overtaken him even in his tender 
youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to 
matins, but its sound, chiming in v/ith his mel- 
ancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice ex- 
horting him to write his story. In the spirit 




Joseph Jefferson as Rip Van Winkle.— Page 52. 

Sketch Book. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 129 

of poetic errantry he determines to comply 
with this intimation ; he, therefore, takes pen 
in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross to 
implore a benediction, and sallies forth into 
the fairy-land of poetry. There is something 
extremely fanciful in all this, and it is iMer- 
esting as furnishing a striking and beautiful 
instance of the simple manner in which whole 
trains of poetical thought are sometimes 
awakened and literary enterprises suggested 
to the mind. 

In the course of his poem, he more than 
once bewails the peculiar hardness of his fate, 
thus doomed to lonely and inactive life, and 
shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the 
world in which the meanest animal indulges 
unrestrained. There is a sweetness, however, 
in his very complaints; they are the lamenta- 
tions of an amiable and social spirit at being 
denied the indulgence of its kind and gener- 
ous propensities ; there is nothing in them 
harsh nor exaggerated; they flow with a nat- 
ural and touching pathos, and are perhaps ren- 
dered more touching by their simple brevity. 
They contrast finely with those elaborate and 
iterated repinings which we sometimes meet 
with in poetry, the effusions of morbid minds 
sickening under miseries of their own creating, 
and venting their bitterness upon an unoffend- 
ing world. James speaks of his privations 
with acute sensibility, but having mentioned 
them passes on, as if his manly mind disdained 
to brood over unavoidable calamities. When 
such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, how- 

9 Sketch Book 



130 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

ever brief, we are aware how great must be 
the suffering that extorts the murmur. We 
sympathize with James, a romantic, active, 
and accomplished prince, cut off in the lusti- 
hood of youth from all the enterprise, the no- 
ble uses, and vigorous delights of life, as we do 
with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature 
and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief 
but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual 
blindness. 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic 
artifice, we might almost have suspected that 
these lowerings of gloomy reflections were 
meant as preparative to the brightest scene of 
his story, and to contrast with that refulgence 
of light and loveliness, that exhilarating ac- 
companiment of bird and song, and foliage 
and flower, and all the revel of the year, with 
which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is 
this scene, in particular, which throws all the 
magic of romance about the old castle keep. 
He had risen, he says, at daybreak, according 
to custom, to escape from the dreary medita- 
tions of a sleepless pillow. "Bewailing in his 
chamber thus alone, ' * despairing of all joy and 
remedy, "for, tired of thought, and woe-be- 
gone," he had wandered to the window to in- 
dulge the captive's miserable solace, of gazing 
wistfully upon the world from which he is ex- 
cluded. The window looked forth upon a 
small garden which lay at the foot of the 
tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned 
with arbors and green alleys, and protected 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 131 

from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn 
hedges. 

Now was there made fast by the tower's wall, 
A jsrarden faire, and in the corners set 

An arbour green with wandis long and small 
Railed about, and so with leaves beset 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
That lyf * was none, walkyng there f orbye 
That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 

And midst of every arbour might be seen, 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper. 

Growing so fair with branches here and there. 
That as it seemed to a lyf without. 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about 

And on the small grene twistis f set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 
So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among. 
That all the garden and the wallis rung 
Right of their song- 
It was the month of May, when everything 
was in bloom, and he interprets the song of 
the nightingale into the language of his enam- 
ored feeling: 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May ; 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
And sing with us, Away, winter, away, 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the 
notes of the birds, he gradually relapses into 
one of those tender and undefinable reveries, 

* Lyf, person. f Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 

Note. — The language of the quotations is generally 
modernized. 



132 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

which Jill the youthful bosom in this delicious 
season. He wonders what this love may be 
of which he has so often read, and which thus 
seems breathed forth in the quickening breath 
of May, and melting all nature into ecstasy 
and song. If it really be so great a felicity, 
and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to 
the most insignificant beings, why is he alone 
cut off from its enjoyments? 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde? 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee, 
Is it of him, as we in books do find ; 
May he oure hertes setten * and unbynd : 

Hath he upon oure hertes such maistrye? 

Or is all this but feynit fantasye? 

For giff lie be of so grete excellence 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilt f to him, or done offense, 
That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large? 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye 
downward, he beholds "the fairest and the 
frebhest young floure" that ever he had seen. 
It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the gar- 
den to enjoy the beauty of that "fresh May 
morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon his 
sight in a moment of loneliness and excited 
susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy 
of the romantic prince, and becomes the object 
of his wandering wishes, the sovereign of his 
ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident 



* Setten, incline. 

f Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 133 

resemblance to the early part of Chaucer's 
Knight's Tale, where Palamon and Arcite fall 
in love with Emilia, whom they see walking 
in the garden of their prison. Perhaps the 
similarity of the actual fact to the incident 
which he had read in Chaucer may have in- 
duced James to dwell on it in his poem. His 
description of the Lady Jane is given in the 
picturesque and minute manner of his master, 
and, being doubtless taken from the life, is a 
perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He 
dwells with the fondness of a lover on every 
article of her apparel, from the net of pearl, 
•splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that 
confined her golden hair, even to the "goodly 
chaine of small orfeverye"* about her neck 
whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a 
heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire 
burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of 
white tissue was looped up to enable her to 
walk with more freedom. She was accom- 
panied by two female attendants, and about 
her sported a little hound decorated with bells, 
probably the small Italian hound of exquisite 
S3^mmetry which was a parlor favorite and pet 
among the fashionable dames of ancient times. 
James closes his description by a burst of gen- 
eral eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature: 

God better knows than my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse, f estate,:}: and cunning § sure. 

* Wrought gold. f Largesse, bounty. 

X Estate, dignity. § Cunning, discretion. 



134 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. 
That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the gar- 
den puts an end to this transient riot of the 
heart. With her departs the amorous illusion 
that had shed a temporary charm over the 
scene of his captivity, and he relapses into 
loneliness, now rendered tenfold more intoler- 
able by this passing beam of unattainable 
beauty. Through the long and weary day he 
repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening 
approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully 
expresses it, had "bade farewell to every leaf 
and flower," he still lingers at the window, 
and, laying his head upon the cold stone, gives 
vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, un- 
til, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy 
of the twilight hour, he lapses "half- sleeping, 
half swoon," into a vision, which occupies the 
remainder of the poem, and in which is allegori- 
cally shadowed out the history of his passion. 
When he wakes from his trance, he rises 
from his stony pillow, and, pacing his apart- 
ment, full of dreary reflections, questions his 
spirit, whether it has been wandering; whether 
indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming 
fancy has been conjured up by preceding cir- 
cumstances, or whether it is a vision intended 
to comfort and assure him in his despondency. 
If the latter, he prays that some token may be 
sent to confirm the promise of happier days, 
given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle- 
dove of the purest whiteness comes flying in 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 135 

at the window, and alights upon his hand, 
bearing in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, 
on the leaves of which is written, in letters of 
gold, the following sentence : 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad, that blissful is and sure 

Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing. 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope 
and dread; reads it with rapture; and this he 
says was the first token of his succeeding hap- 
piness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, 
or whether the Lady Jane did actually send 
him a token of her favor in this romantic way, 
remains to be determined according to the fate 
or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem 
by intimating that, the promise conveyed in 
the vision and by the flower, is fulfilled by his 
being restored to liberty, and made happy in 
the possession of the sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James 
of his love adventures in Windsor Castle. 
How much of it is absolute fact, and how 
much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruit- 
less to conjecture; let us not, however, reject 
every romantic incident as incompatible with 
real life, but let us sometimes take a poet at 
his word. I have noticed merely those parts 
of the poem immediately connected with the 
tower, and have passed over a large part which 
was in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated 
at that day. The language, of course, is 
quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of 



156 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

man}^ of its golden phrases will scarcely be 
perceived at the present day, but it is impos- 
sible not to be charmed with the genuine sen- 
timent, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, 
which prevail throughout it. The descrip- 
tions of Nature too, with which it is embel- 
lished, are given with a truth, a discrimination 
and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated 
periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these 
days of coarser thinking, to notice the nature, 
refinement, and exquisite delicacy which per- 
vade it ; banishing every gross thought, or im- 
modest expression, and presenting female love- 
liness, clothed in all its chivalrous attributes 
of almost supernatural purity and grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of 
Chaucer and Gower, and was evidently an ad- 
mirer and studier of their writings. Indeed in 
one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as 
his masters; and in some parts of his poem we 
find traces of similarity to their productions, 
more especially to those of Chaucer. There 
are always, however, general features of 
resemblance in the works of contemporary 
authors, which are not so much borrowed from 
each other as from the times. Writers, like 
bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; they 
incorporate with their own conceptions, the 
anecdotes and. thoughts current in society; 
and thus each generation has some features in 
common, characteristic of the age in which it 
lives. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 13? 

eras of our literary history, and establishes the 
claims of his country to a participation in its 
primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of 
English writers are constantly cited as the 
fathers of our verse, the name of their great 
Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in 
silence ; but he is evidently worthy of being en- 
rolled in that little constellation of remote but 
never-failing luminaries who shine in the high- 
est firmament of literature, and who, like 
morning stars, sang together at the bright 
dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar 
with Scottish history (though the manner in 
which it has of late been woven with captivat- 
ing fiction has made it a universal study) may 
be curious to learn something of the subse- 
quent history of James and the fortunes of his 
love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was 
the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his 
release, it being imagined by the Court that a 
connection with the blood-royal of England 
would attach him to its own interests. He 
was ultimately restored to his liberty and 
crown, having previously espoused the Lady 
Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and 
made him a most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, 
the feudal chieftains having taken advantage 
of the troubles and irregularities of a long 
interregnum, to strengthen themselves in their 
possessions, and place themselves above the 
power of the laws. James sought to found 
the basis of his power in the affections of his 

10 Sketch Book 



138 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

people. He attached the lower orders to him 
by the reformation of abuses, the temperate 
and equable administration of justice, the en- 
couragement of the arts of peace, and the 
promotion of everything that could diffuse com- 
fort, competency, and innocent enjoyment 
through the humblest ranks of society. He 
mingled occasionally among the common 
people in disguise; visited their firesides; en- 
tered into their cares, their pursuits, and their 
amusements; informed himself of the me- 
chanical arts, and how they could best be pat- 
ronized and improved ; and was thus an all- 
pervading spirit, watching with a benevolent 
eye over the meanest of his subjects. Having 
in this generous manner made himself strong 
in the hearts of the common people, he turned 
himself to curb the power of the factious 
nobility; to strip them of those dangerous im- 
munities which they had usurped ; to punish 
such as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; 
and to bring the whole into proper obedience 
to the Crown. For some time they bore this 
with outward submission, but with secret im- 
patience and brooding resentment. A conspir- 
acy was at length formed against his life, at 
the head of which was his own uncle, Robert 
Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old 
himself for the perpetration of the deed of 
blood, instigated his grandson, Sir Robert 
Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, 
and others of less note, to commit the deed. 
They broke into his bedchamber at the 
Dominican convent near Perth, where he was 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 139 

residing, and barbarously murdered him by 
oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, 
rushing to throw her tender body between him 
and the sword, was twice wounded in the in- 
effectual attempt to shield him from the 
assassin ; and it was not until she had been 
forcibly torn from his person, that the murder 
was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale 
of former times, and of the golden little poem, 
which had its birthplace in this tower, that 
made me visit the old pile with more than com- 
mon interest. The suit of armor hanging up 
in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if 
to figure in the tourney, brought the image of 
the gallant and romantic prince vividly before 
my imagination. I paced the deserted 
chambers where he had composed his poem; I 
leaned upon the window, and endeavored to 
persuade myself it was the very one where he 
had been visited by his vision; I looked out 
upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady 
Jane. It was the same genial and joyous 
month ; the birds were again vying with each 
other in strains of liquid melody ; everything 
was bursting into vegetation, and budding 
forth the tender promise of the year. Time, 
which delights to obliterate the sterner memo- 
rials of human pride, seems to have passed 
lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, 
and to have withheld his desolating hand. 
Several centuries have gone by, yet the gar- 
den still flourishes at the foot of the tower. It 
occupies what was once the moat of the keep: 



140 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and, though some parts have been separated 
by dividing walls, yet others have still their 
arbors and shaded walks, as in the days of 
James, and the whole is sheltered, blooming, 
and retired. There is a charm about the spot 
that has been printed by the footsteps of de- 
parted beatity, and consecrated by the inspira- 
tions of the poet, which is heightened, rather 
than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, in- 
deed, the gift of poetry, to hallow every place 
in which it moves; to breathe around nature 
an odor more exquisite than the perfume of 
the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magi- 
cal than the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of 
James as a warrior and a legislator; but I 
have delighted to view him merely as the 
companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of 
the human heart, stooping from his high 
estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry and 
song in the paths of common life. He was 
the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy 
plant of Scottish genius, which has since be- 
come so prolific of the most wholesome and 
highly flavored fruit. He carried with him 
into the sterner regions of the north, all the 
fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He 
did everything in his power to win his country- 
men to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, 
which soften and refine the character of a 
people, and wreathe a grace round the lofti- 
ness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote 
many poems, which, unfortunately for the full- 
ness of his fame, are now lost to the Vv^orld: 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 141 

one, which is still preserved, called ''Christ's 
Kirk of the Green," shows how diligently he 
had made himself acquainted with the rustic 
sports and pastimes, which constitute such a 
source of kind and social feeding among the 
Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and 
happy humor he could enter into their enjoy- 
ments. He contributed greatly to improve 
the national music ; and traces of his tender 
sentiment and elegant taste are said to exist in 
those witching airs, still piped among the wild 
mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He 
has thus connected his image with whatever is 
most gracious and endearing in the national 
character; he has embalmed his memory in 
song, and floated his name to after-ages in the 
rich streams of Scottish melody. The recol- 
lection of these things was kindling at my 
heart, as I paced the silent scene of his impris- 
onment. I have visited Vaucluse with as 
much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the 
shrine at Loretto ; but I have never felt more 
poetical devotion than when contemplating 
the old tower and the little garden at Windsor, 
and musing over the romantic loves of the 
Lady Jane, and the Royal Poet of Scotland. 



142 THE SKETCH BOOK, 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 

A gentleman ! 
What o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest? 
Or lists of velvet? which is 't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by? 

Beggar's Bush, 

There are few places more favorable to the 
stedy of character than an English country 
church. I was once passing a few weeks at 
the seat of a friend who resided in the vicinity 
«©£ one the appearance of which particularly 
stoick my fancy. It was one of those rich 
Miiorsels of quaint antiquity, which gives such 
u peculiar charm to English landscape. ft 
stood in the midst of a country filled with 
ancient families, and contained within its cold 
and silent aisles the congregated dust of many 
noble generations. The interior walls were 
encrusted with monuments of every age and 
style. The light streamed through windows 
dimmed with armorial bearings, richly embla- 
siomed in stained glass. In various parts of the 
clrarch were tombs of knights, and high-born 
dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their 
effigies in colored marble. On every side, the 
eye was struck with some instance of aspiring 
mortality, some haughty memorial which 
Iraman pride had erected over its kindred 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 143 

dust in this temple of the most humble of all 
religions. 

The congregation was composed of the 
neighboring people of rank, who sat in pews 
sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished 
with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated 
with their arms upon the pew doors; of the 
villagers and peasantry, who filled the back 
seats and a small gallery beside the organ; 
and of the poor of the parish, who were ranged 
on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, 
well-fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near 
the church. He was a privileged guest at all 
the tables of the neighborhood, and had been 
the keenest fox-hunter in the country, until 
age and good living had disabled him from 
doing anything more than ride to see the hounds 
throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found 
it impossible to get into the train of thought 
suitable to the time and place; so, having, like 
many other feeble Christians, compromised 
with my conscience, by laying the sin of my 
own delinquency at another person's threshold, 
I occupied myself by making observations on 
my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curi- 
ous to notice the manners of its fashionable 
classes. I found, as usual, that there was the 
least pretension where there was the most 
acknowledged title to respect. I was particu- 
larly struck, for instance, with the family of a 
nobleman of high rank, consisting of several 



144 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

sons and daughters. Nothing could be more 
simple and unassuming than their appearance. 
They generally came to church in the plainest 
equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies 
would stop and converse in the kindest man- 
ner with the peasantry, caress the children, and 
listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. 
Their countenances were open and beautifully 
fair, with an expression of high refinement, but 
at the same time a frank cheerfulness and 
engaging affability. Their brothers were tall, 
and elegantly formed. They were dressed 
fashionably, but simple — with strict neatness 
and propriety, but without any mannerism or 
foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy 
and natural, with that lofty grace and noble 
frankness which bespeak free-born souls that 
have never been checked in their growth by 
feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful 
hardiness about real dignity, that never dreads 
contact and communion with others, however 
humble. It is only spurious pride that is mor- 
bid and sensitive, and shrinks from every 
touch. I was pleased to see the manner in 
which they would converse with the peasantry 
about those rural concerns and field-sports in 
which the gentlemen of the country so much 
delight. In these conversations there was 
neither haughtiness on the one part, nor ser- 
vility on the other, and you were only reminded 
of the difference of rank by the habitual respect 
of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a 
wealthy citizen, who had amassed a vast for- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 145 

tune, and, having purchased the estate and 
mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighbor- 
hood, was endeavoring to assume all the style 
and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. 
The family ahvays came to church en prince. 
They were rolled majestically along in a car- 
riage emblazoned with arms. The crest glit- 
tered in silver radiance from every part of the 
harness where a crest could possibly be placed. 
A fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat richly 
laced and a flaxen wig, curling close round his 
rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek 
Danish dog beside him. Two footmen in gor- 
geous liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold- 
headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage 
rose and sunk on its long springs, with a pecu- 
liar stateliness of motion. The very horses 
champed their bits, arched their necks, and 
glanced their eyes more proudly than common 
horses; either because they had caught a little 
of the family feeling, or were reined up more 
tightly than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which 
this splendid pageant was brought up to the 
gate of the churchyard. There was a vast 
effect produced at the turning of an angle of 
the wall — a great smacking of the whip, strain- 
ing and scrambling of the horses, glistening of 
harness, and flashing of wheels through gravel. 
This was the moment of triumph and vain glory 
to the coachman. The horses were urged and 
checked, until they were fretted into a foam. 
They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, 
dashing about pebbles at every step. The 

10 



146 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to church 
opened precipitately to the right and left, gap- 
ing in vacant admiration. On reaching the 
gate, the horses were pulled up with a sudden- 
ness that produced an immediate stop, and 
almost threw them on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the 
footmen to alight, pull down the steps, and 
prepare everything for the descent on earth of 
this august family. The old citizen first 
emerged his round red face from out the door, 
looking about him with the pompous air of a 
man accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake 
the Stock Market, with a nod. His consort, a 
fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, follov/ed him. 
There seemed, I must confess, but little pride 
in her composition. She was the picture of 
broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world 
went well with her; and she liked the world. 
She had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine car- 
riage, fine children — everything was fine about 
her : it was nothing but driving about and visit- 
ing and feasting. Life was to her a per- 
petual revel ; it was one long Lord Mayor's Day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly 
couple. They certainly were handsome, but 
had a supercilious air that chilled admiration 
and disposed the spectator to be critical. 
They were ultra-fashionable in dress, and, 
though no one could deny the richness of their 
decorations, yet their appropriateness might be 
questioned amidst the simplicity of a country 
church. They descended loftily from the car- 
riage, and moved up the line of peasantry with 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 147 

a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
They cast an excursive glance around, that 
passed coldly over the burly faces of the 
peasantry, until they met the eyes of the noble- 
man's family, when their countenances imme- 
diately brightened into smiles, and they made 
the most profound and elegant courtesies, 
which were returned in a manner that showed 
they were but slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this inspir- 
ing citizen, who came to church in a dashing 
curricle with outriders. They were arrayed in 
the extremity of the mode, with all that ped- 
antry of dress which marks the man of ques- 
tionable pretensions to style. They kept en- 
tirely by themselves, eyeing every one askance 
that came near them, as if measuring his 
claims to respectability ; yet they were without 
conversation, except the exchange of an occa- 
sional cant phrase. They even moved arti- 
ficially, for their bodies, in compliance with 
the caprice of the day, had been disciplined 
into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art 
had done everything to accomplish them as 
men of fashion, but Nature had denied them 
the nameless grace. They were vulgarly 
shaped, like men formed for the common pur- 
poses of life, and had that air of supercilious 
assumption which is never seen in the true 
gentleman. 

1 have been rather minute in drawing the 
pictures of these two families, because I con- 
sidered them specimens of what is often to be 
met with in this country — the unpretending 



148 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

great, and the arrogant little. I have no 
respect for titled rank, unless it be accom- 
panied with true nobility of soul ; but I have 
remarked, in all countries where artificial dis- 
tinctions exist, that the very highest classes 
are always the most courteous and unassuming. 
Those who are well assured of their own stand- 
ing are least apt to trespass on that of others; 
whereas, nothing is so offensive as the aspir- 
ings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself 
by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into con- 
trast, I must notice their behavior in church. 
That of the nobleman's family was quiet, seri- 
ous, and attentive. Not that they appeared to 
have any fervor of devotion, but rather a 
respect for sacred things, and sacred places, 
inseparable from good-breeding. The others, 
on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter 
and whisper; they, betrayed a continual con- 
sciousness of finery, and the sorry ambition of 
being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really 
attentive to the service. He took the whole 
burden of family devotion upon himself ; stand- 
ing bolt upright, and uttering the responses 
with a loud voice that might be heard all over 
the church. It was evident that he was one of 
these thorough Church-and-king men, who 
connect the idea of devotion and loyalty; who 
consider the Deit3^ somehow or other, of the 
government party, and religion "a very excel- 
lent sort of thing, that ought to be counte- 
nanced and kept up." 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 149 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it 
seemed more by way of example to the lower 
orders, to show them that, though so great and 
wealthy, he was not above being religious; as 
I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow pub- 
licly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips 
at every mouthful and pronouncing it "excel- 
lent food for the poor. ' ' 

When the service was at an end, I was curi- 
ous to witness the several exits of my groups. 
The young noblemen and their sisters, as the 
day was fine, preferred strolling home across 
the fields, chatting with the country people as 
they went. The others departed as they came, 
in grand parade. Again were the equipages 
wheeled up to the gate. There was again the 
smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and 
the glittering of harness. The horses started 
off almost at a bound; the villagers again hur- 
ried to right and left ; the wheels threw up a 
cloud of dust, and the aspiring family was rapt 
out of sight in a whirlwind. 



150 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. 

— Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

Those who are in the habit of remarking- such 
matters must have noticed the passive quiet of 
an English landscape on Sunday. The clack- 
ing of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke 
of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's ham- 
mer, the whistling of the ploughman, the 
rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of 
rural labor are suspended. The very farm- 
dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed 
by passing travelers. At such times I have 
almost fancied the wind sunk into quiet, and 
that the sunny landscape, with its fresh green 
tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hal- 
lowed calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so brght. 
The bridal of , the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion 
should be a day of rest. The holy repose 
which reigns over the face of nature has its 
moral influence; every restless passion is 
charmed down, and we feel the natural religion 
of the soul gently springing up within us. 
For my part, there are feelings that visit me, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 151 

in a country church, amid the beautiful seren- 
ity of nature, which I experience nowhere else ; 
and if not a more religious, I think I am a 
better man on Sunday than on any other day 
of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the country, 
I used frequently to attend at the old village 
church. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering 
monuments, its dark oaken paneling, all rev- 
erend with the gloom of departed years, seemed 
to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation ; 
but, being in a wealthy, aristocratic neighbor- 
hood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even 
into the sanctuary; and I felt myself continu- 
ally thrown back upon the world, by the fri- 
gidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. 
The only being in the whole congregation who 
appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and 
prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor 
decrepit old woman, bending under the weight 
of years and infirmities. She bore the traces 
of something better than abject poverty. The 
lingerings of descent pride were visible in her 
appearance. Her dress, though humble in the 
extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial 
respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did 
not take her seat among the village poor, but 
sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed 
to have survived all love, all friendship, all 
society, and to have nothing left her but the 
hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly ris- 
ing and bending her aged form in prayer; 
habitually conning her prayer-book, which her 
palsied hand and failing eyes could not permit 



152 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

her to read, but which she evidently knew by 
heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voice 
of that poor woman arose to heaven far before 
the responses of the clerk, the swell of the 
organ, or the chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country 
churches, and this was so delightfully situated, 
that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a 
knoll, round which a small stream made a 
beautiful bend and then wound its way 
through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. 
The church was surrounded by yew trees, 
which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its 
tall gothic spire shot up lightly from among 
them, with rooks and crows generally wheel- 
ing about it. I was seated there one still 
sunny morning watching two laborers who 
were digging a grave. They had chosen one 
of the most remote and neglected corners of 
the churchyard, where, from the number of 
nameless graves around, it would appear that 
the indigent and friendless were huddled into 
the earth. I was told that the new-made 
grave was for the only son of a poor widow. 
While I was meditating on the distinctions of 
worldly rank, which extend thus down into 
the very dust, the toll of the bell announced 
the approach of the funeral. They were the 
obsequies of poverty, with which pride had 
nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest mate- 
rials, without pall or other covering, was borne 
by some of the villagers. The sexton walked 
before with an air of cold indifference. There 
,were no mock mourners in the trappings of 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 153 

affected woe, but there was one real mourner 
who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was 
the aged mother of the deceased, the poor old 
woman whom I had seen seated on the steps 
of the altar. She was supported by a humble 
friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. 
A few of the neighboring poor had joined the 
train, and some children of the village were 
running hand in hand, now shouting with un- 
thinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with 
childish curiosity on the grief of the mourn- 
er. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, 
the parson issued from the church- porch, arrayed 
in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and 
attended by the clerk. The service, however, 
was a mere act of charity. The deceased had 
been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. 
It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but 
coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest 
moved but a few steps from the church-door ; 
his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; 
and never did I hear the funeral service, that 
sublime and touching ceremony, turned into 
such a frigid m.ummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was 
placed on the ground. On it were inscribed 
the name and age of the deceased — "George 
Somers, aged 26 years. ' ' The poor mother had 
been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. 
Her withered hands were clasped, as if in 
prayer ; but I could perceive, by a feeble rock- 
ing of the body, and a convulsive motion of 
the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics 



154 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of her son with the yearnings of a mother's 
heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin 
in the earth. There was that bustling stif, 
which breaks so harshly on the feelings of 
grief and affection ; directions given in the cold 
tones of business; the striking of spades into 
sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those 
we love, is of all sounds the most withering. 
The bustle around seemed to waken the 
mother from a wretched revery. She raised 
her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint 
wildness. As the men approached with cords 
to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung 
her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. 
The poor woman who attended her took her by 
the arm endeavoring to raise her from the 
earth, and to whisper something like consola- 
tion: "Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so 
sorely to heart. ' ' — She could only shake her 
head, and wring her hands, as one not to be 
comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the 
creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her; 
but when, on some accidental obstruction, 
there was a jostling of the coffin, all the ten- 
derness of the mother burst forth, as if any 
harm could come to him who was far beyond 
the reach of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into 
my throat— my eyes filled with tears; I felt 
as if I were acting a barbarous part in stand- 
ing by and gazing idly on this scene of mater- 
nal anguish. I wandered to another part of 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 155 

the churchyard, where I remained until the 
funeral train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully 
quitting the grave, leaving behind her the 
remains of all that was dear to her on earth, 
and returning to silence and destitution, my 
heart ached for her. What, thought I, are 
the distresses of the rich? They have friends 
to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to 
divert and dissipate their griefs. What are 
the sorrows of the young? Their growing 
minds soon close above the wound — their elas- 
tic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their 
green and ductile affections soon twine round 
new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who 
have no outward appliances to soothe— the sor- 
row of the aged, with whom life at best is but 
a wintry day, and who can look for no 
after-growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, 
aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an 
only son, the last solace of her years, — these 
are indeed sorrows which make us feel the 
impotency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the church- 
yard. On my way homeward, I met with the 
woman who had acted as comforter: she was 
just returning from accompanying the mother 
to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her 
some particulars connected with the affecting 
scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in 
the village from childhood. They had inhab- 
ited one of the neatest cottages, and by various 
rural occupations, and the assistance of a small 



156 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

garden, had supported themselves creditably 
and comfortably, and led a happy and a blame- 
less life. They had one son, who had grown 
up to be the staff and pride of their age. "Oh, 
sir!" said the good woman, "he was such a 
comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every 
one around him, 'so dutiful to his parents! It 
did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, 
drest out in his best, so tall, so straight, so 
cheery, supporting his old mother to church; 
for she was always fonder of leaning on 
George's arm than on her good man's; and, 
poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a 
finer lad there was not in the country round. " 
Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during 
a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, 
to enter into the service of one of the small 
craft that plied on a neighboring river. He 
had not been long in this employ, when he was 
entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to 
sea. His parents received tidings of his seiz- 
ure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. 
It was the loss of their main prop. The 
father, who was already infirm, grew heartless 
and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. 
The v^^idow, left lonely in her age and feeble- 
ness, could no longer support herself, and 
came upon the parish. Still there was a kind 
feeling towards her throughout the village, 
and a certain respect as being one of the oldest 
inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage 
in which she had passed so many happy days, 
she was permitted to rem.ain in it, where she 
lived solitary and almost helpless. The few 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 157 

wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the 
scanty productions of her little garden, which 
the neighbors would now and then cultivate 
for her. It was but a few days before the time 
at which these circumstances were told me, 
that she was gathering some vegetables for her 
repast, when she heard the cottage-door which 
faced the garden, suddenly opened. A 
stranger came out, and seemed to be looking 
eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed 
in seamen's clothes, was emaciated and 
ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken 
by sickness and hardships. He saw her and 
hastened towards her, but his steps were faint 
and faltering; he sank on his knees before her 
and sobbed like a child. The poor woman 
gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering 
eye. *' Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't you 
know your son? your poor boy George?" It 
was, indeed, the wreck of her once noble lad ; 
who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and 
foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged 
his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among 
the scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars 
of such a meeting, where sorrow and joy were 
so completely blended: still, he was alive! he 
was come home! he might yet live to comfort 
and cherish her old age! Nature, however, 
was exhausted in him ; and if anything had 
been wanting to finish the work of fate, the 
desolation of his native cottage would have 
been sufficient. He stretched himself on the 
pallet on which his widowed mother had passed 



158 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

many a sleepless night, and he never rose from 
it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George 
Somers had returned, crowded to see him, 
offering every comfort and assistance that their 
humble means afforded. He was too weak, 
however, to talk — he could only look his 
thanks. His mother was his constant atten- 
dant, and he seemed unwilling to be helped 
by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks 
down the pride of manhood, that softens the 
heart, and brings it balck to the feelings of 
infancy. Who that has languished, even in 
advanced life, in sickness and despondency, 
who that has pined on a weary bed in the ne- 
glect and loneliness of a foreign land, but has 
thought on the mother ''that looked on his 
childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and 
administered to his helplessness? Oh, there is 
an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother 
to a son, that transcends all other affections 
of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by 
selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weak- 
ened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingrati- 
tude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his 
convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure 
to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame 
and exult in his prosperity; and, if misfortune 
overtake him, he will be the dearer to her 
from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon 
his name, she will still love and cherivSh him 
in spite of his disgrace; and if all the world 



THE SKETCH COOK. 159 

beside cast him off, she will be all the world 
to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was 
to be in sickness, and none to soothe — lonely 
and in prison, and none to visit him. He 
could not endure his mother from his sight ; 
if she moved away, his eye would follow her. 
She would sit for hours by his bed watching 
him as he slept. Sometimes he would start 
from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up 
until he saw her bending over him ; when he 
would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and 
fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In 
this way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble 
tale of affliction was to visit the cottage of 
the mourner, and administer pecuniary assist- 
ance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, how- 
ever, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the 
villagers had prompted them to do everything 
that the case admitted ; and as the poor know 
best how to console each other's sorrows, I 
did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church, 
when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old 
woman tottering down the aisle to her accus- 
tomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to_ put on something 
like mourning for her son; and nothing could 
be more touching than this struggle between 
pious affection and utter poverty — a black rib- 
bon or so, a faded black handkerchief, and one 
or two more such humble attempts to express 
by outward signs that grief which passes show. 



160 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

When I looked round upon the storied monu- 
ments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble 
pomp with which grandeur mourned magnifi- 
cently over departed pride, and turned to this 
poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow 
at the altar of her God, and offering up the 
prayers and praises of a pious though a broken 
heart, I felt that this living monument of real 
grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy 
members of the congregation, and they were 
moved by it. They exerted themselves to 
render her situation more comfortable, and to 
lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but 
smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the 
course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed 
from her usual seat at church, and before I 
left the neighborhood I heard, with a feeling 
of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed 
her last, and had gone to rejoin those she 
loved, in that world where sorrow is never 
known and friends are never parted. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 161 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON.* 

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an 
English Sunday in the country and its tran- 
quillizing effect upon the landscape ; but where 
is its sacred influence more strikingly appar- 
ent than in the very heart of that great Babel, 
London? On this sacred day the gigantic 
monster is charmed into repose. The intoler- 
able din and struggle of the week are at an 
end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges 
and manufactories are extinguished, and the 
sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of 
smoke, pours down a sober yellow radiance 
into the quiet streets. The few pedestrians 
we meet, instead of hurrying forward with 
anxious countenances, move leisurely along; 
their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of 
business and care ; they have put on their Sun- 
day looks and Sunday manners with their 
Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as 
well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from 
church towers summons their several flocks to 
the fold. Forth issues from his mansion the 
family of the decent tradesman, the small chil- 
dren in the advance ; then the citizen and his 
comely spouse, followed by the grown-up 

*Part of a sketch omitted in. the preceding editions. 
n Sketch Book 



162 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer- 
books laid in the folds of their pocket handker- 
chiefs. The housemaid looks after them from 
the window, admiring the finery of the family, 
and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from 
her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has 
assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some 
magnate of the city, peradventure an alder- 
man or a sheriff, and now the patter of many 
feet announces a procession of charity scholars 
in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a 
prayer-book under his arm. 

The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumb- 
ling of the carriage has ceased ; the pattering 
of feet is heard no more ; the flocks are folded 
in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes 
and corners of the crowded city, where the 
vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the shep- 
herd's dog, round the threshold of the sanctu- 
ary. For a time everything is hushed, but soon 
is heard the deep, pervading sound of the or- 
gan, rolling and vibrating through the empty 
lanes and courts, and the sweet chanting of 
the choir making them resound with melody 
and praise. Never have I been more sensible 
of the sanctifying effect of church music than 
when I have heard it thus poured forth, like 
a river of joy, through the inmost recesses of 
this great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, 
from all the sordid pollutions of the week, and 
bearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide of 
triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 163 

streets are again alive with the congregations 
returning to their homes, but soon again re- 
lapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday- 
dinner, which, to the city tradesman, is a meal 
of some importance. There is more leisure 
for social enjoyment at the board. Members 
of the family can now gather together, who are 
separated by the laborious occupations of the 
week. A school boy may be permitted on that 
day to come to the paternal home; an old 
friend of the family takes his accustomed Sun- 
day seat at the board, tells over his well-known 
Stories, and rejoices young and old with his 
well-known jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its 
legions to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the 
sunshine of the parks and rural environs. 
Satirists may say what they please about the 
rural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sun- 
day, but to me there is something delightful in 
beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded 
and dusty city enabled thus to come forth once 
a week and throw himself upon the green bos- 
om of nature. He is like a child restored to 
the mother's breast ; and they who first spread 
out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure 
grounds which surround this huge metropolis 
have done at least as much for its health and 
morality as if they had expended the amount 
of cost in hospitals, prisons and penitentiaries. 



164 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, 
EASTCHEAR 

A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH. 

"A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple 
of good fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather 
tell, how his great-great-graadfather should say, that it 
was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a 
child, that 'it was a good wind that blew a man to the 
wine.' "—Mother Bombie. 

It is a pious custom in some Catholic coun- 
tries to honor the memory of saints by votive 
lights burnt before their pictures. The pop- 
ularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by 
the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, 
is left to moulder in the darkness of his little 
chapel ; another may have a solitary lamp to 
throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy; 
while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished 
at the shrine of some beatified father of re- 
nown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge 
luminarj^ of wax, the eager zealot, his seven- 
branched candlestick ; and even the mendicant 
pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient 
light is thrown upon the deceased unless he. 
hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The 
consequence is, that in the eagerness to en- 
lighten, they are often apt to obscure; and I 
have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost 

■ i 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 165 

smoked out of countenance by the officiousness 
of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared *with the immor- 
tal Shakespeare. Every writer considers it his 
bounden duty to light up some portion of his 
character or works, and to rescue some merit 
from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in 
words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; 
the common herd of editors send up mists of 
obscurity from their notes at the bottom of 
each page ; and every casual scribbler brings 
his farthing rushlight of eulogy or research to 
swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my 
brethren of the quill, I thought it but proper 
to contribute my mite of homage to the mem- 
ory of the illustrious bard. I was for some 
time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I 
should discharge this duty. I found myself 
anticipated in every attempt at a new reading ; 
every doubtful line had been explained a dozen 
different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach 
of elucidation; and as to fine passages, they 
had all been amply praised by previous admir- 
ers; nay, so completely had the bard, of late, 
been overlarded with panegyric by a great 
German critic that it was difficult now to find 
even a fault that had not been argued into a 
beauty. 

In this perplexity I was one morning turn- 
ing over his pages when I casually opened 
upon the comic scenes of "Henry IV.," and 
was, in a moment, completely lost in the mad- 
cap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So 



166 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

vividly and naturally are these scenes of hu- 
mor depicted, and with such force and consis- 
tency are the characters sustained, that they 
become mingled up in the mind with the facts 
and personages of real life. To few readers 
does it occur that these are all ideal creations 
of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no 
such knot of merry roisterers ever enlivened 
the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my part, I love to give myself up to the 
illusions of poetry. A hero of fiction that 
never existed is just as valuable to me as a 
hero of history that existed a thousand years 
since ; and, if I may be excused such an insensi- 
bility to the common ties of human nature, I 
would not give up fat Jack for half the great 
men of ancient chronicle. What have the 
heroes of yore done for me or rhen like me? 
They have conquered countries of which I do 
not enjoy an acre, or they have gained laurels 
of which I do not inherit a leaf, or they have 
furnished examples of hair-brained prowess, 
which I have neither the opportunity nor the 
inclination to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! 
kind Jack Falstaff! sweet Jack Falstaff ! has 
enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment ; 
he has added vast regions of wit and good- 
humor, in which the poorest man may revel, 
and has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance 
of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier 
and better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me. "I will 
make a pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I, clos- 
ing the book, "and see if the old Boar's Head 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 167 

Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may 
light upon some legendary traces of Dame 
Quickly and her guests? At any rate, there 
will be a kindred pleasure in treading the halls 
once vocal with their mirth to that the toper 
enjoys in smelling to the empty cask, once filled 
with generous wine. ' ' 

The resolution was no sooner formed than 
put in execution. I forbear to treat of the 
various adventures and wonders I encountered 
in my travels ; of the haunted regions of Cock 
Lane; of the faded glories of Little Britain 
and the parts adjacent ; what perils I ran in 
Cateaton Street and Old Jewry ; of the re- 
nowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, 
the pride and wonder of the city and the ter- 
ror of all unlucky urchins; and how I visited 
London Stone, and struck my staff upon it in 
imitation of that arch-rebel Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived 
in merry Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit 
and wassail, where the very names of the 
streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding 
Lane bears testimony even at the present day. 
For East cheap, says old Stow, "was always 
famous for its convivial doings. The cookes 
cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well 
baked, and other victuals; there was clatter- 
ing of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie. " 
Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the 
roaring days of Falstaff and old Stow ! The 
madcap roisterer has given place to the plod- 
ding tradesman ; the clattering of pots and the 
Sound of "harpe and sawtrie," to the din of 



168 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

carts and the accurst dinging of the dustman's 
bell; and no song is heard, save, haply, the 
strain of some syren from Billingsgate, chant- 
ing the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 

I sought in vain, for the ancient abode of 
Dame Quickly. The only relict of it is a boar's 
head, carved in relief in stone, which formerly 
served as the sign, but at present is built into 
the parting line of two houses which stand on 
the site of the renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little abode of good 
fellowship I was referred to a tallow-chandler's 
widow opposite, who had been born and 
brought up on the spot, and was looked up to 
as the indisputable chronicler of the neighbor- 
hood. I found her seated in a little back par- 
lor, the window of which looked out upon a 
yard about eight feet square laid out as a flow- 
er garden, while a glass door opposite afforded 
a distant view of the street, through a vista of 
soap and tallow candles — the two views, which 
comprised, in all probability, her prospects in 
life and the little world in which she had lived 
and moved and had her being for the better 
part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, 
great and little, from London Stone even unto 
the Monument, was doubtless, in her opinion, 
to be acquainted with the history of the uni- 
verse. Yet, with all this, she possessed the 
simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal com- 
municative disposition which I have generally 
remarked in intelligent old ladies knowing m 
the concerns of their neighborhood. * 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 169 

Her information, however, did not extend 
far back into antiquity. , She could throw no 
light upon the history of the Boar's Head from 
the time that Dame Quickly espoused the val- 
ia.nt Pistol until the great fire of London when 
it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon 
rebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old 
name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck 
with remorse for double scores, bad measures, 
and other iniquities which are incident to the 
sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make 
his peace with Heaven by bequeathing the 
tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, 
toward the supporting of a chaplain. For some 
time the vestry meetings were regularly held 
there, but it was observed that the old Boar 
never held up his head under church govern- 
ment. He gradually declined, and finally gave 
his last gasp about thirty years since. The 
tavern was then turned into shops; but she in- 
formed me that a picture of it was still pre- 
served in St. Michael's Church which stood 
just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture 
was now my determination; so, having in- 
formed myself of the abode of the sexton, I 
took my leave of the venerable chronicler of 
Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised 
greatly her opinion of her legendary lore and 
furnished an important incident in the history 
of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty and much curious 
inquiry to ferret out the humble hanger-on to 
the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane 
and divers little alleys and elbows and dark 

12 Sketch Book 



170 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

passages with which this old city is perforated 
like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of 
drawers. At length I traced him to a corner 
of a small court surrounded by lofty houses, 
where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of 
the face of heaven as a community of frogs at 
the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little 
man, of a bowing, lowly habit, yet he had a 
pleasant twinkling in his eye, and if encour- 
aged, would now and then hazard a small pleas- 
antry, such as a man of his low estate might 
venture to make in the company of high 
church wardens and other mighty men of the 
earth. I found him in company with the dep- 
uty organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels, 
discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, 
and settling the affairs of the church over a 
friendly pot of ale ; for the lower classes of 
English seldom deliberate on any weighty 
matter without the assistance of a cool tankard 
to clear their understandings. I arrived at 
the moment when they had finished their ale 
and their argument, and were about to repair 
to the church to put it in order; so, having 
made known my wishes, I received their gra- 
cious permission to accompany them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, 
standing a short distance from Billingsgate, 
is enriched with the tombs of manj^ fishmong- 
ers of renown ; and as every profession has its 
galaxy of glory and its constellation of great 
men, I presume the monument of a mighty 
fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 171 

as much reverence by succeeding generations , 
of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating the 
tomb of Virgil or soldiers the monument of a 
Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking 
of illustrious men, to observe that St. Mich- 
ael's Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes of 
that doughty champion, William Walworth, 
Knight, who so manfully clove down the 
sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield— a hero 
worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the only 
Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of 
arms, the sovereigns of Cockney being gener- 
ally renowned as the most pacific of all poten- 
tates.* 

*The following was the ancient inscription on the 
monument of this worthy, which, unhappily, was de- 
stroyed in the great conflagration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name : 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew entent. 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent 
And gave him armes, as here you see, 
To declare his fact and chivaldrie, 
He left this lyff the yere of our Gk)d 
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been cor- 
rected by the venerable Stow. "Whereas," saith he. "it 
hath bee^n far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the 
rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Wal- 
worth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack 
Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile 



17-2 . THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, 
immediately under the back window of what 
was once the Boar's Head, stands the tomb- 
stone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the 
tavern. It is now nearly a century since this 
trusty drawer of good liquor closed his hus- 
tling career and was thus quietly deposited 
within call of his customers. As I was clear- 
ing away the weeds from his epitaph the little 
sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious 
air, and informed me in a low voice that once 
upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when 
the wind was unruly, howling, and whistling, 
banging about doors and windows, and twirl- 
ing weather-cocks, so that the living were 
frightened out of their beds, and even the dead 
could not sleep quietly in their graves, the 
ghost of honest Preston, which happened to be 
airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted 
by the well-known call of "Waiter!" frorri the 
Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance 
in the midst of a roaring club, just as the par- 
ish clerk was singing a stave from the "mirre 
garland of Captain Death;" to the discomfiture 
of sundry train-band captains and the conver- 
sion of an infidel attorney, who became a zeal- 
ous Christian on the spot, and was never 
known to twist the truth afterwards, except 
in the way of business. 

this rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in 
ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or 
captains of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first 
man; the second was John, or Jack Straw, etc., etc.— - 
Slew's "London." 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 173 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not 
pledge myself for the authenticity of this an- 
ecdote, though it is well known that the 
churchyards and by-corners of this old metrop- 
olis are very much infested with perturbed 
spirits; and every one must have heard of the 
Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that 
guards the regalia in the Tower which has 
frightened so many bold sentinels almost out 
of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston 
seems to have been a worthy successor to the 
nimble-tongued Francis, who attended upon 
the revels of Prince Hal; to have been equally 
prompt with his "Anon, anon, sir;" and to 
have transcended his predecessor in honesty; 
for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no 
man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses 
Francis of putting lime in his sack, whereas 
honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the 
sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his 
wine, and the fairness of his measure. * The 

*As this inscription is rife with excel] ent morality, I 
transcribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. 
It is, no doubt, the production of some choice spirit 
who once frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies, 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he def3'-'d 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots. 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults, 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, 
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 



174 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did 
not appear much captivated by the sober vir- 
tues of the tapster; the deputy organist, who 
had a moist look out of the eye, made some 
shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man 
brought up among full hogsheads, and the lit- 
tle sexton corroborated his opinion by a signifi- 
cant wink and a dubious shake of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw 
much light on the history of tapsters, fish- 
mongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed 
me in the great object of my quest, the picture 
of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such paint- 
ing was to be found in the church of St. Mich- 
ael's. "Marry and amen," said I, "here end- 
eth my research!" So I was giving the mat- 
ter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, 
when my friend the sexton, perceiving me 
to be curious in everything relative to the old 
tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels 
of the vestry, which had been handed down 
from remote times when the parish meetings 
were held at the Boar's Head. These were 
deposited in the parish club room, which had 
been transferred, on the decline of the ancient 
establishment, to a tavern in the neighbor- 
hood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which 
stands No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of 
The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Master 
Edward Honeyball, the "bully- rock" of the 
establishment. It is one of those little taverns 
which abound in the heart of the city and form 
the center of gossip and intelligence of the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 175 

neighborhood. We entered the bar-room, 
which was narrow and darkling, for in these 
close lanes bnt few rays of reflected light are 
enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, 
whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twi- 
light. The room was partitioned into boxes, 
each containing a table spread with a clean 
white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed 
that the guests were of the good old stamp, 
and divided their day equally, for it was but 
just one o'clock. At the lower end of the 
room was a clear coal fire, before which a 
breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright 
brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened 
along the mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned 
clock ticked in one corner. There was some- 
thing primitive in this medley of kitchen, par- 
lor, and hall that carried me back to earlier 
times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, 
was humble, but everything had that look of 
order and neatness which bespeaks the super- 
intendence of a notable English housewife. A 
group of amphibious-looking beings, who 
might be either fishermen or sailors, were re- 
galing themselves in one of the boxes. As I 
was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I 
was ushered into a little misshapen back room, 
having at least nine corners. It was lighted by 
a sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathern 
chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a 
fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to par- 
ticular customers, and I found a shabby gentle- 
man in a red nose and oil-cloth hat seated in 



176 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

one corner meditating on a half-empty pot of 
porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, 
and with an air of profound importance im- 
parted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball 
was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, 
and no bad substitute for that paragon of host- 
esses. Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted 
with an opportunity to oblige, and, hurrying 
upstairs to the archives of her house, where 
the precious vessels of the parish club were 
deposited she returned, smiling and courtesy- 
ing, with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned 
iron tobacco-box of gigantic size, out of which, 
I was told, the vestry had smoked at their 
stated meetings since time immemorial, and 
which was never suffered to be profaned by 
vulgar hands, or used on common occasions. 
I received it with becoming reverence, but 
what was my delight at beholding on its 
cover the indentical painting of which I was 
in quest! There was displayed the outside of 
the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door 
was to be seen the whole convivial group at 
table, in. full revel, pictured with that wonder- 
ful fidelity and force with which the portraits 
of renowned generals and commodores are 
illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit of 
posterity. Lest, however, there should be 
any mistake, the cunning limner had warily 
inscribed the names of Prince Hal and Falstaff 
on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscrip- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 177 

tion, nearly obliterated, recording that this 
box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for 
the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's 
Head Tavern, and that it was "repaired and 
beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 
1767." Such is a faithful description of this 
august and venerable relic, and I question 
whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated 
his Roman shield, or the Knights of the 
Round Table the long-sought San-greal, with 
more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enrap- 
tured gaze. Dame Honeyball, who was highly 
gratified by the interest it excited, put in my 
hands a drinking-cup or goblet which also be- 
longed to the vestry, and was descended from 
the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription 
of having been the gift of Francis Wythers, 
Knight, and was held, she told me, in exceed- 
ing great value, being considered very 
"antyke. " This last opinion was strength- 
ened by the shabby gentleman with the red 
nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom I 
strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant 
from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly 
aroused from his meditation on the pot of por- 
ter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, 
exclaimed, "Ay, ay! the head don't ache now 
that made that there article." 

The great importance attached to this me- 
mento of ancient revelry by modern church- 
wardens, at first puzzled me ; but there is noth- 
ing sharpens the apprehension so much as anti- 
quarian research ; for I immediately perceived 



178 THE SKETCH ROOK. 

that this could be no other than the identical 
"parcel- gilt goblet," on which Falstaff made 
his loving but faithless vow to Dame Quickly, 
and which would, of course, be treasured up 
with care among the regalia of her domains, 
as a testimony of that solemn contract.* 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long his- 
tory how the goblet had been handed down 
from generation to generation. She also en- 
tertained me with many particulars concerning 
the worthy vestrymen who had seated them- 
selves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient 
roisterers of Eastcheap, and, like so many 
commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor 
of Shakespeare. These I forbear to relate, 
lest my readers should not be as curious in 
these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the 
neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, be- 
lieve that Falstaff and his merry crew actually 
lived and reveled there. Nay, there are sev- 
eral legendary anecdotes concerning him still 
extant among the oldest frequenters of the 
Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted 
down from their forefathers; and Mr. M'Kash, 
an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop stands on 
the site of the old Boar's Head, has several 
dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the 

* "Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, 
sitting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by 
a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun-week, when 
the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a 
singing man at Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, 
as i was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make 
me mv lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it?" — Henry j 
IV.. Part 2. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 179 

books, with which he makes his customers 
ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to 
make some further inquiries, but I found him 
sunk in pensive meditation. His head had 
declined a little on one side; a deep sigh 
heaved from the very bottom of his stomach, 
and, though I could not see a tear trembling 
in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently steal- 
ing from a corner of his mouth. I followed 
the direction of his eye through the door which 
stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the 
savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping 
richness before the fire. 

I now called to mind that in the eagerness 
of my recondite investigation, I was keeping 
the poor man from his dinner. My bowels 
yearned with sympathy, and putting in his 
hand a small token of my gratitude and good- 
ness, I departed with a hearty benediction on 
him, Dame Honey ball, and the parish club of 
Crooked Lane — not forgetting my shabby, 
but sententious friend, in the oil- cloth hat and 
copper nose. 

Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account 
of this interesting research, for which, if it 
prove too short and unsatisfactory, I can only 
plead my inexperience in this branch of litera- 
ture, so deservedly popular at the present day. 
I am aware that a more skilful illustrator of 
the immortal bard would have swelled the 
materials I have touched upon to a good mer- 
chantable bulk, comprising the biographies of 
William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert 



180 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Preston; some notice of the eminent fish- 
mongers of St. Michael's; the history of East- 
cheap, great and little; private anecdotes of 
Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, 
whom I have not even mentioned; to say noth- 
ing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb 
(and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a 
comely lass with a neat foot and ankle) ; — the 
whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and 
illuminated by the great fire of London. 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked 
by future commentators, nor do I despair of 
seeing the tobacco-box, and the "parcel-gilt 
goblet" which I have thus brought to light 
the subject of future engravings, and almost 
as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and dis- 
putes as the shield of Achilles or the far-famed 
Portland Vase. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 181 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

I know that all beneath the moon decays. 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's g^eat periods shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muses' heavenly rays, 
"With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought — 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 
Drummond of Hawthornden. 

There are certain lialf-dreaming moods of 
mind in which we naturally steal away from 
noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt 
where we may indulge our reveries and build 
our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood 
I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of 
Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of 
wandering thought which one is apt to dignify 
with the name of reflection, when suddenly an 
irruption of madcap boys from Westminster 
school, playing at football, broke in upon the 
monastic stillness of the place, making the 
vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo 
with their merriment. I sought to take refuge 
from their noise by penetrating still deeper into 
the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one 
of the vergers for admission to the library. 
He conducted m.e through a portal rich with 



182 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which 
opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the 
chapter-house and the chamber in which 
Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the 
passage is a small door on the left. To this 
the verger applied a key; it was double 
locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if 
seldom used. We now ascended a dark narrow 
staircase, and, passing through a second door, 
entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the 
roof supported by massive joists of old English 
oak. It was soberly lighted by a row of 
Gothic windows at a considerable height from 
the floor, and which apparently opened upon 
the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture 
of some reverend dignitary of the Church in 
his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the 
hall and in a small gallery were the books, 
arranged in carved oaken cases. They con- 
sisted principally of old polemical writers, and 
were much more worn by time than use. In 
the center of the library was a solitary table 
with two or three books on it, an inkstand 
without ink, and; a few pens parched by long 
disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet 
study and profound meditation. It was 
buried deep among the massive walls of the 
abbey and shut up from the tumult of the 
world. I could only hear now and then the 
shouts of the school-boys faintly swelling from 
the cloisters, and the sound of a bell tolling 
for prayers echoing soberly along the roofs of 
the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merri- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 183 

ment grew fainter and fainter, and at length 
died away; the bell ceased to toll, and a pro- 
found silence reigned through the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curi- 
ously bound in parchment, with brass clasps, 
and seated myself at the table in a venerable 
elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I 
was beguiled by the solemn monastic air and 
lifeless quiet of the place, into a train of mus- 
ing. As I looked around upon the old vol- 
umes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged 
on the shelves and apparently never disturbed 
in their repose, I could not but consider the 
library a kind of literary catacomb, where 
authors, like mummies, are piously entombed 
and left to blacken and moulder in dusty obli- 
vion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these vol- 
umes, now thrust aside with such indifference, 
cost some aching head! how many weary 
days ! how many sleepless nights ! How have 
their authors buried themselves in the solitude 
of cells and cloisters, shut themselves up from 
the face of man, and the still more blessed 
face of Nature; and devoted themselves to 
painful research and intense reflection! And 
all for what? To occupy an inch of dusty 
shelf — to have the titles of their works read 
now and then in a future age by some drowsy 
churchman or casual straggler like myself, and 
in another age to be lost even to remem- 
brance. Such is the amount of this boasted 
immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a 
local sound ; like the tone of that bell which 



184 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

has tolled among these towers, filling the ear 
for a moment, lingering transiently in echo, 
and then passing away, like a thing that was 
not! 

While I sat half-murmuring, half -meditat- 
ing, these unprofitable speculations with my 
head resting on my hand, I was thrumming 
with the other hand upon the quarto, until I 
accidentally loosened the clasps ; when, to my 
utter astonishment, the little book gave two 
or three yawns, like one awaking from a deep 
sleep, then a husky hem, and at length began 
to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and 
broken, being much troubled by a cobweb 
which some studious spider had woven across 
it, and having probably contracted a cold from 
long exposure to the chills and damps of the 
abbey. In a short time, however, it became 
more distinct, and I soon found it an exceed- 
ingly fluent, conversable little tome. Its lan- 
guage, to be sure, was rather quaint and obso- 
lete, and its pronunciation what, in the present 
day, would be deemed barbarous ; but I shall 
endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in 
modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of 
the world, about merit being suffered to lan- 
guish in obscurity, and other such common- 
place topics of literary repining, and com- 
plained bitterly that it had not been opened 
for more than two centuries — that the dean 
only looked now and then into the library, 
sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled 
with them for a few moments, and then re- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 185 

turned them to theii shelves. "What a plague 
do they mean?" said the little quarto, which 
I began to perceive was somewhat choleric — 
"what a plague do they mean by keeping sev- 
eral thousand volumes of us shut up here, and 
watched by a set of old vergers, like so many 
beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at 
now and then by the dean? Books were writ- 
ten to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I 
would have a rule passed that the dean should 
pay each of us a visit at least once a year , or, 
if he is not quite equal to the task, let them 
once in a while turn loose the whole school of 
Westminster among us, that at any rate we 
may now and then have an airing. ' * 

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I; "you 
are not aware how much better you are off 
than most books of your generation. By 
being stored away in this ancient library you 
are like the treasured remains of those saints 
and monarchs which lie enshrined in the 
adjoining chapels, while the remains of their 
contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary 
course of Nature, have long since returned to 
dust. ' ' 

"Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves 
and looking big, "I was written for all the 
world, not for the bookworms of an abbey. I 
was intended to circulate from hand to hand, 
like other great contemporary works ; but here 
have I been clasped up for more than two cen- 
turies, and might have silently fallen a prey to 
these worms that are playing the very ven- 
geance with my intestines if you had not by 



186 THE SKETCH BOOK 

chance given me an opporttinity of uttering a 
few last words before I go to pieces." 

"My good friend, " rejoined I, "had you been 
left to the circulation of which you speak, you 
would long ere this have been no more. To 
judge from your physiognomy, you are now 
well stricken in years: very few of your con- 
temporaries can be at present in existence, and 
those few owe their longevity to being immured 
like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me 
to add, instead of likening to harems, you 
might: more properly and gratefully have com- 
pared to those infirmaries attached to religious 
establishments for the benefit of the old and 
decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no 
employment, they often endure to an amaz- 
iiigly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of 
your contemporaries as if in circulation. 
Where do we meet with their works? What 
do we hear of Robert Grosteste of Lincoln? 
No one could have toiled harder than he for 
immortality. He is said to have written nearly 
two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a 
pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, 
alas! the pyramid has long since fallen, and 
only a few fragments are scattered in various 
libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed 
even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of 
Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, 
philosopher, theologian, and poet? He declined 
two bishoprics that he might shut himself up 
and write for posterity; but posterity never 
inquires after his labors. What of Henry of 
Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 187 

England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of 
the world, which the world has revenged by 
iforgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of 
Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical 
composition? Of his three great heroic poems, 
one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment; 
the others are known only to a few of the curi- 
ous in literature ; and as to his love verses and 
epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. 
What is in current use of John Wallis the 
Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree 
of life? Of William of Malmsbury — of Simeon 
. of Durham — of Benedict of Peterborough — of 

John Hanvill of St. Albans— of " 

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testy 
tone, "how old do you think me? You are 
talking of authors that lived long before my 
time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so 
that they in a manner expatriated themselves, 
and deserved to be forgotten;* but I, sir, was 
ushered into the world from the press of the 
renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in 
my own native tongue, at a time when the 
language. had become fixed; and indeed I was 
considered a model of pure and elegant English. 
(I should observe that these remarks were 
couched in such intolerably antiquated terms, 
that I have had infinite diifeculty in rendering 
them into modern phraseology.) 

* "In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes 
had great delyte to endite, and have many noble thinges 
fulfilde, but cartes there ben some that speaken their 
poisye in French, of, which speche the Frenchmen have 
as good a fantasye as we have in hearying of French- 
men's Englishe." — Chaucer's "Testament of Love." 



188 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

"I cry you mercy," said I, **for mistaking 
your age ; but it matters little : almost all the 
writers of your time have likewise passed into 
forgetfulness, and De Worde's publications are 
mere literary rarities among book-collectors. 
The purity and stability of language, too, on 
which you found your claims to perpetuity, 
have been the fallacious dependence of authors 
of every age, even back to the times of the 
worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his his- 
tory in rhymes of mongrel Saxon. * Even now 
many talk of Spenser's 'well of pure English 
unde filed, * as if the language ever sprang from* 
a well or fountain-head, and was not rather a 
mere confluence of various tongues perpetually 
subject to changes and intermixtures. It is 
this which has made English literature so 
extremely mutable, and the reputation built 
upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be 
committed to something more permanent and 
unchangeable than such a medium, even 
thought must share the fate of everything else, 
and fall into decay. This should serve as a 
check upon the vanity and exultation of the 

*Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, "Afterwards, 
also, by diligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and John 
Gowre, in the time of Richard the Second, and after 
them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of 
Berre, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, 
notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of per- 
fection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John 
Jewell, Bishop of Saurm, John Fox, and sundrie learned 
and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the orna- 
ture of the same to their great praise and immortal com- 
mendation." 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 189 

most popular writer. He finds the language in 
which he has embarked his fame gradually- 
altering and subject to the dilapidations of 
time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back 
and beholds the early authors of his country, 
once the favorites of their day, supplanted by 
modern writers. A few short ages have 
covered them with obscurity, and their merits 
can only be relished by the quaint taste of the 
book-worm. And such, he anticipates, will 
be the fate of his own work, which, however, 
it may be admired in its day and held up as a 
model of purity, will in the course of years 
grow antiquated and obsolete, until it shall 
become almost as unintelligible in its native 
land as an Egyptian obelisk or one of those 
Runic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts 
of Tartary. I declare, " added I, with some 
emotion, *' when I contemplate a modern 
library, filled with new works in all the bravery 
of rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed to 
sit down and weep, like the good Xerxes, when 
he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the 
splendor of military array, and reflected that 
in one hundred years not one of them would be 
in existence. ' ' 

''Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy 
sigh, "I see how it is: these modern scribblers 
have superseded all the good old authors. I 
suppose nothing is read nowadays but Sir 
Philip Sidney's 'Arcadia,' Sackville's stately 
plays and ' Mirror for Magistrates, ' or the fine- 
spun euphuisms af the 'unparalleled John 
Lyly.' " 



190 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

"There you are again mistaken," said I; 
"the writers whom you suppose in vogue, 
because they happened to be so when you were 
last in circulation, have lone since had their 
day. Sir Philip Sidney's 'Arcadia, ' the immor- 
tality of which was so fondly predicted by 
his admirers,* and which, in truth, was full of 
noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful 
turns of language, is now scarcely ever men- 
tioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity ; 
and even Lyly, though his writings were once 
the delight of a court, and apparently perpet- 
uated by a proverb, is now scarcely known 
even by name. A whole crowd of authors who 
wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise 
gone down with all their writings and their 
controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding 
literature has rulled over them, until they are 
buried so deep, that it is only now and then 
that some industrious diver after fragments of 
antiquity brings up a specimen for the grati- 
fication of the curious. 

*'For my part," I continued, "I consider this 
mutability of language a wise precaution of 
Providence for the benefit of the world at 
large, and of authors in particular. To reason 

* "Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his 
gentle witt, and the golden pillar of his noble courage; 
and ever notify unto the world that thy writer was the 
secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the 
honey bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the 
pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bel- 
lona in the field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber, 
the spirite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excel- 
lence in print." — Harvey Pierce's Supererogation. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 191 

from analogy, we daily behold the varied and 
beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up, 
flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, 
and then fading into dust, to make way for 
their successors. Were not this the case, the 
fecundity of nature would be a grievance 
instead of a blessing. The earth would groan 
with rank and excessive vegetation, and its sur- 
face become a tangled wilderness. In like 
manner, the works of genius and learning 
decline and make way for subsequent produc- 
tions. Language gradually varies, and with it 
fade away the writings of authors who have 
flourished their allotted time; otherwise the 
creative powers of genius would overstock the 
world, and the mind would be completely 
bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. 
Formerly there were some restraints on this 
excessive multiplication. Works had to be 
transcribed by hand, which was a slow and 
laborious operation; they were written either 
on parchment, which was expensive, so that 
one work was often erased to make way for 
another; or on papyrus, which was fragile 
and extremely perishable. Authorship was a 
limited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly 
by monks in the leisure and solitude of their 
cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts 
was slow and costly, and confined almost 
entirely to monasteries. To these circum- 
stances it may, in some measure, be owing 
that we have not been inundated by the intel- 
lect of antiquity — that the fountains of thought 
have not been broken up, and modern genius 



192 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of 
paper and the press have put an end to all 
these restraints. They have made every one a 
writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself 
into print, and diffuse itself over the whole 
intellectual world. The consequences are 
alarming. The stream of literature has swollen 
into a torrent — augmented into a river — ex- 
panded into a sea. A few centuries since five 
or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great 
library ; but what would you say to libraries, 
such as actually exist, containing three or four 
hundred thousand volumes ; legions of authors 
at the same time busy; and the press going on 
with fearfully increasing activity, to double 
and quadruple the number? Unless some 
unforseen mortality should break out among 
the progeny of the Muse, now that she has 
become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I 
fear the mere fluctuation of language will not 
be sufficient. Criticism may do much; it 
increases with the increase of literature, and 
resembles one of those salutary checks on pop- 
ulation spoken of by economists. All possible 
encouragement, therefore, should be given to 
the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear 
all will be in vain; let criticism do what it 
may, writers will write, printers will print, and 
the world will inevitably be overstocked with 
good books. It will soon be the employment 
of a lifetime merel}^ to learn their names. 
Many a man of passable information at the 
present day reads scarcely anything but 
reviews, and before long a man of erudition 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 193 

will be little better than a mere walking cata- 
logue." 

"My very good sir," said the little quarto, 
yawning most drearily in my face, "excuse my 
interrupting you, but I perceive you are rather 
given to prose. I would ask the fate of an 
author who was making some noise just as I 
left the world. His reputation, however, was 
considered quite temporary. The learned 
shook their heads at him, for he was a poor, 
half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, 
and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to 
run the country for deer-stealing. I think his 
name was Shakespeare. I presume he soon 
sunk into oblivion. " 

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to 
that very man that the literature of his period 
has experienced a duration beyond the ordi- 
nary term of English literature. There rise 
authors now and then who seem proof against 
the mutability of language because they have 
rooted themselves in the unchanging principles 
of human nature. They are like gigantic trees 
that we sometimes see on the banks of a 
stream, which by their vast and deep roots, 
penetrating through the mere surface and lay- 
ing hold on the very foundations of the earth, 
preserve the soil around them from being 
swept away by the ever-flowing current, and 
hold up many a neighboring plant, and per- 
haps worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is 
the case with Shakespeare, whom we behold 
defying the encroachments of time, retaining 
in modern use the language and literature of 

13 Sketch Book 



194 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

his day, and giving duration to many ail indif- 
ferent author, merely from having flourished in 
his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is 
gradually assuming the tint of age, and his 
whole form is overrun by a profusion of com- 
mentators, who, like clambering vines and 
creepers, almost bury the noble plant that 
upholds them. " 

Here the little quarto began to heave his 
sides and chuckle, until at length he broke out 
into a plethoric fit of laughter that had well- 
nigh choked him by reason of his excessive 
corpulency. *' Mighty well!" cried he, as soon 
as he could recover breath, "mighty well! 
and so you would persuade me that the litera- 
ture of an age is to be perpetuated by a vaga- 
bond deer-stealer! by a man without learning! 
by a poet! forsooth — a poet!" And here he 
wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this 
rudeness, which, however, I pardoned on 
account of his having flourished in a less pol- 
ished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to 
give up my point. 

"Yes," resumed I positively, "a poet; for of 
all writers he has the best chance for immor- 
tality. Others may write from the head, but 
he writes from the heart, and the heart will 
always understand him. He is the faithful 
portrayer of Nature, whose features are always 
the same and always interesting. Prose 
writers are voluminous and unwieldy; their 
pages crowded with commonplaces, and their 
thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 195 

the true poet everything is terse, touching, 
or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts 
in the choicest language. He illustrates them 
by everything that he sees most striking in 
nature and art. He enriches them by pictures 
of human life, such as it is passing before him. 
His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the 
aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in 
which he lives. They are caskets which 
enclose within a small compass the wealth of 
the language — its family jewels, which are thus 
transmitted in a portable form to posterity. 
The setting may occasionally be antiquated, 
and require now and then to be renewed, as in 
the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and 
intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. 
Cast a look back over the long reach of liter- 
ary history. What vast valleys of dulness, 
filled with monkish legends and academical 
controversies ! What bogs of theological spec- 
ulations ! What dreary wastes of metaphysics ! 
Here and there only do we behold the heaven- 
illumined bards, elevated like beacons on their 
widely-separated heights, to transmit the pure 
light of poetical intelligence from age to 
age."* 

*Throw earth and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe : 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 



196 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

I was just about to launch forth into eulo- 
giums upon the poets of the day when the 
sudden opening of the door caused me to turn 
my head. It was the verger, who came to 
inform me that it was time to close the library. 
I sought to have a parting word with the 
quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent ; 
the clasps were closed : and he looked perfectly 
unconscious of all that had passed. I have 
been to the library two or three times since, 
and have endeavored to draw it into further 
conversation, but in vain; and whether all 
this rambling colloquy actually took place, 
or whether it was another of those odd day- 
dreams to which I am subject, I have never, 
to this moment, been able to discover. 

That drops from poet's head! 
Which doth surmount our common talke 
As farre as dross doth lead. 

urchyard. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 197 



RURAL FUNERALS. 

Here's a few flowers ! but about midnight more : 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 

Are strewings fitt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now withered ; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

— Cymbeline. 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted 
customs of rural life which still linger in some 
parts of England are those of strewing flowers 
before the funerals and planting them at the 
graves of departed friends. These, it is said, 
are the remains of some of the rites of the 
primitive Church; but they are of still higher 
antiquity, having been observed among the 
Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned 
by their writers, and were no doubt the spon- 
taneous tributes of unlettered affection, origi- 
nating long before art had tasked itself to 
modulate sorrow into song or story it on the 
monument. They are now only to be met 
with in the most distant and retired places of 
the kingdom, where fashion and innovation 
have not been able to throng in and trample 
out all the curious and interesting traces of the 
olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed 
whereon the corpse lies is covered with flowers, 



198 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

a custom alluded to in one of the wild and 
plaintive ditties of Ophelia: 

White his shroud as the mountain snow, 

Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful 
rite observed in some of the remote villages 
of the south at the funeral of a female who 
has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of 
white flowers is borne before the corpse by a 
young girl nearest in age, size, and resem- 
blance, and is afterwards hung up in the church 
over the accustomed seat of the deceased. 
These chaplets are sometimes made of white 
paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of 
them is generally a pair of white gloves. They 
are intended as emblems of the purity of the 
deceased, and the crown of glory which she 
has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead 
are carried to the grave with the singing of 
psalms and hymns — a kind of triumph, "to 
show," says Bourne, "that they have finished 
their course with joy, and are become con- 
querors." This, I am informed, is observed 
in some of the northern counties, particularly 
in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, 
though melancholy effect to hear of a still 
evening in some lonely country scene the 
mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling 
from a distance, and to see the train slowly 
moving along the landscape. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 199 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will. 

The daffodill 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

— Herrick. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the 
traveler to the passing funeral of these seques- 
tered places; for such spectacles, occurring 
among the quiet abodes of Nature, sink deep 
into the soul. As the mourning train ap- 
proaches he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by ; 
he then follows silently in the rear; some- 
times quite to the grave, at other times for a 
few hundred yards, and, having paid this 
tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and 
resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs 
through the English character, and gives it 
some of its most touching and ennobling 
graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic 
customs, and in the solicitude shown by the 
common people for an honored and a peaceful 
grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may 
be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that 
some little respect may be paid to his remains. 
Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the "faire 
and happy milkmaid," observes, "thus lives 
she, and all her care is, that she may die in 
the spring-time, to have store of flowers stucke 
upon her winding-sheet." The poets, too, 
who always breathe the feeling of a nation, 
continually advert to this fond solicitude about 
the grave. In "The Maid's Tragedy," by 



200 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful 
instance of the kind describing the capricious 
melancholy of a broken-hearted girl: 

When she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in ; and made her maids 
Bluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating graves was once 
universally prevalent: osiers were carefully 
bent over them to keep the turf uninjured, 
and about them were planted evergreens and 
flowers. ''We adorn their graves," says Eve- 
lyn, in his 'Sylva, ' ''with flowers and redolent 
plants,- just emblems of the life of man, which 
has been compared in Holy Scriptures to those 
fading beauties whose roots, being buried in 
dishonor, rise again in glory." This usage 
has now become extremely rare in England; 
but it may still be met with in the churchyards 
of retired villages, among the Welsh moun- 
tains; and I recollect an instance of it at the 
small town of Ruthven, which lies at the head 
of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been 
told also by a friend, who was present at the 
funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, 
that the female attendants had their aprons 
full of flowers, which, as soon as the body 
was interred, they stuck about the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been 
decorated in the same manner. As the flowers 
had been rrierely stuck in the ground, and 
not planted, they had soon withered, and 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 2ai 

might be seen in various states of decay ; some 
drooping-, others quite perished. They were 
afterwards to be supplanted by holly, rose- 
mary, and other evergreens, which on some 
graves had grown to great luxuriance, and 
overshadowed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fanciful- 
ness in the arrangement of these rustic offer- 
ings, that had something in it truly poetical. 
The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, 
to form a general emblem of frail mortality. 
*'This sweet flower," said Evelyn, "borne on 
a branch set with thorns and accompanied with 
the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugi- 
tive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, 
which, making so fair a show for a time, is 
not yet without its thorns and crosses. ' ' The 
nature and color of the flowers, and of the 
ribbons with which they were tied, had often 
a particular reference to the qualities or story 
of the deceased, or were expressive of the 
feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, 
entitled "Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover 
specifies the decorations he intends to use : 

A garland shall be framed 
By art and nature's skill, 

Of sundry-colored flowers. 
In token of good-will. 

And sundry-colored ribbons 

On it I will bestow ; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 



14 Sketch Book 



I'll deck her tomb with flowers 
The rarest ever seen ; 



202 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

And with my tears as showers 
I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at 
the grave of a virgin ; her chaplet was tied 
with white ribbons, in token of her spotless 
innocence, though sometimes black ribbons 
were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the 
survivors. The red rose was occasionally 
used, in remembrance of such as had been 
remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in 
general were appropriated to the graves of 
lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was 
not altogether extinct in his time, near his 
dwelling in the county of Surrey, "where the 
maidens yearly planted and decked the graves 
of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes. '* 
And Camden likewise remarks, in his "Brit- 
annia:" "Here is also a certain custom, 
observed time out of mind, of planting trees 
upon the graves, especially by the young men 
and maids who have lost their loves; so that 
this churchyard is now full of them. ' ' 

When the deceased had been unhappy in 
their loves, emblems of a more gloomy charac- 
ter were used, such as the yew and cypress, 
and if flowers were strewn, they were of the 
most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by 
Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is 
the following stanza : 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismal grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and ye we ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 203 

In "The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little 
air is introduced, illustrative of this mode of 
decorating the funerals of females who had 
been disappointed in love : 

Lay a garland on my hearse 

Of the dismal yew. 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, 

From my hour of birth ; 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead 
is to refine and elevate the mind ; and we have 
. a proof of it in the purity of sentiment and- 
the unaffected elegance of thought which 
pervaded the whole of these funeral observ- 
ances. Thus it was an especial precaution 
that none but sweet-scented evergreens and 
flowers should be employed. The intention 
seems to have been to soften the horrors of 
the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding 
over the disgraces of perishing mortality, and 
to associate the memory of the deceased with 
the most delicate and beautiful objects in 
nature. There is a dismal process going on 
in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred 
dust, which the imagination shrinks from 
contemplating; and we seek still to think of 
the form we have loved, with those refined 
associations which it awakened when blooming 
before us in youth and beauty. '*Lay her i* 
the earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister. 



^04 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring. 

Herrick, also, in his "Dirge of Jephtha,*' 
pours forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought 
and image, which in a manner embalms the 
dead in the recollections of the living. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice. 

And make this place all Paradise : 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

***** 
May all shie maids at wonted hours 
Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ! 
May virgins, when they come to mourn 

Male incense bum 
Upon thine altar ! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from 
the older British poets, who wrote when these 
rites were more prevalent, and delighted fre- 
quently to allude to them; But I have already 
quoted more than is necessary. I cannot, 
however, refrain from giving a passage from 
Shakespeare, even though it should appear 
trite, which illustrates the emblematical mean- 
ing often conveyed in these floral tributes, 
and at the same time possesses that magic of 
language and appositeness of imagery for 
which he stands pre-eminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 205^ 

, The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor 
The azured harebell like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweetened not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting- 
in these prompt and spontaneous offerings of 
Nature than in the most costly monuments 
of art; the hand strues the flower while the 
heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave 
as affection is binding the osier round the sod; 
but pathos expires under the slow labor of the 
chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits 
of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted that a custom 
so truly elegant and touching has disappeared 
from general use, and exists only in the most 
remote and insignificant villages. But it 
seems as if poetical custom always shuns the 
walks of cultivated society. In proportion as. 
people grow polite they cease to be poetical. 
They talk of poetry, but they have learnt tO' 
check its free impulses, to distrust its sallying^ 
emotions, and to supply its most affecting and 
picturesque usages by studied form and pom- 
pous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more 
stately and frigid than an English funeral in 
town. It is made up of show and gloomy 
parades, mourning carriages, mourning horses^ 
mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who 
make a mockery of grief. "There is a grave 
digged," says Jeremy Taylor, "and a solemn 
mourning, and a great talk in the neighbor- 
hood, and when the dales are finished, they^ 
shall be, and they shall be remembered no 



206 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

more." The associate in the gay and crowded 
•city is soon forgotten; the hurrying succes- 
sion of new intimates and new pleasures 
effaces him from our minds, and the very 
scenes and circles in which he moved are in- 
cessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the 
■country are solemnly impressive. The stroke 
of death makes a wider space in the village 
circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil 
uniformity of rural life. The passing bell 
tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals with its 
pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and 
saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the 
country also perpetuate the memory of the 
friend with whom we once enjoyed them, who 
was the companion of our most retired walks, 
and gave animation to every lonely scene. His 
idea is associated with every charm of Nature; 
we hear his voice in the echo which he once 
delighted to awaken; his spirit haunts the 
grove which he once frequented; we think of 
him in the wild upland solitude or amidst the 
pensive beauty of the valley. In the freshness 
of joyous morning we remember his beaming 
smiles and bounding gayety; and when sober 
evening returns with its gathering shadows 
and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a 
twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled 
melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

For him the tear be duly shed ; 
Beloved till life can charm no more, 
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 



THE SKETCH BOOK, 207 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory 
of the deceased in the country is that the 
grave is more immediately in sight of the sur- 
vivors. They pass it on their way to prayer; 
it meets their eyes when their hearts are 
softened by the exercises of devotion; they 
linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind 
is disengaged from worldly cares and most 
disposed to turn aside from present pleasures 
and present loves and to sit down among the 
solemn momentos of the past. In North 
Wales the peasantry kneel and pray over the 
graves of their deceased friends for several 
Sundays after the interment ; and where the 
tender rite of strewing and planting flowers is 
still practiced, it is always renewed on Easter, 
Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the 
season brings the companion of former fes- 
tivity more vividly to mind. It is also invari- 
ably performed by the nearest relatives and 
friends; no menials nor hirelings are em- 
ployed, and if a neighbor yields assistance, it 
would be deemed an insult to offer compensa- 
tion. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural cus- 
tom, because it is one of the last, so is it one 
of the holiest, offices of love. The grave is 
the ordeal of true affection. It is there that 
the divine passion of the soul manifests its 
superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere 
animal attachment. The latter must be con- 
tinually refreshed and kept alive by the pres- 
ence of its object, but the love that is seated 
in the soul can live on long remembrance. 



208 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

The mere inclinations of sense languish and 
decline with the charms which excited them, 
and turn with shuddering disgust from the 
dismal precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence 
that truly spiritual affection rises, purified 
from every sensual desire, and returns, like 
a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the 
heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow 
from which we refuse to be divorced. Every 
other wound we seek to heal, every other 
affliction to forget; but this wound we con- 
sider it a duty to keep open, this affliction we 
cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is 
the mother who would willingly forget the 
infant that perished like a blossom from her 
arms, though every recollection is a pang? 
Where is the child that would willingly forget 
the most tender parents, though to remember 
be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of 
agony, would forget the friend over whom he 
mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing 
upon the remains of her he most loved, when 
he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the 
closing of its portal, would accept of consola- 
tion that must be bought by forgetfulness? 
No, the love which survives the tomb is one of 
the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its 
woes, it has likewise its delights; and when 
the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed 
into the gentle tear of recollection, when the 
sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over 
the present ruins of all that we most loved is 
softened away into pensive meditation on all 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 209 

that it was in the days of its loveliness, wlio 
would root out such a sorrow from the heart? 
Though it may sometimes throw a passing 
cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread 
a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet 
who would exchange it even for the song of 
pleasure or the burst of revelry? No, there is 
a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. 
There is a remembrance of the dead to which 
we turn even from the charms of the living. 
Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every 
error, covers every defect, extinguishes every 
resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring 
none but fond regrets and tender recollections. 
Who can look down upon the grave even of an 
enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that 
he should ever have warred with the poor 
handful of earth that lies mouldering before 
him? 

But the grave of those we loved— what a 
place for meditation! There it is that we call 
up in long review the whole history of virtue 
and gentleness, and the thousand endearments 
lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily 
intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we 
dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful 
tenderness, of the parting scene. The bed of 
death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless 
attendance — its mute, watchful assiduities. 
The last testimonies of expiring love ! The 
feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh, how thrill- 
ing ! — pressure of the hand ! The faint, falter- 
ing accents, struggling in death to give one 
more assurance of affection! The last fond 



210 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even 
from the threshold of existence ! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love and med- 
itate! There settle the account with thy 
conscience for every past benefit unrequited — 
every past endearment unregarded, of that 
departed being who can never — never — never 
return to be soothed by thy contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sor- 
row to the soul or a furrow to the silvered brow 
of an affectionate parent ; if thou art a husband, 
and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ven- 
tured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt 
one moment of thy kindness or thy truth ; if 
thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in 
thought or word or deed, the spirit that gener- 
ously confided in thee ; if thou art a lover, and 
hast ever given one unmerited pang to that 
true heart which now lies cold and still beneath 
thy feet, — then be sure that every unkind look, 
every ungracious word, every ungentle action 
will come thronging back upon thy memory 
and knocking dolefully at thy soul: then be 
sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and 
repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard 
groan and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, 
more bitter because unheard and unavail- 
ing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers and strew 
the beauties of Nature about the grave ; console 
thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these 
tender yet futile tributes of regret ; but take 
warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite 
affliction over the dead, and henceforth be 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 211 

more faithful and affectionate in the discharge 
of thy duties to the living. 



In writing the preceding article it was not 
intended to give a full detail of the funeral 
customs of the English peasantry, but merely 
to furnish a few hints and quotations illustra- 
tive of particular rites, to be appended, by way 
of note, to another paper, which has been 
withheld. The article swelled insensibly into 
its present form, and this is mentioned as an 
apology for so brief and casual a notice of 
these usages after they have been amply and 
learnedly investigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware 
that this custom of adorning graves w4th flow- 
ers prevails in other countries besides Eng- 
land. Indeed, in some it is much more gen- 
eral, and is observed even by the rich and 
fashionable ; but it is then apt to lose its sim- 
plicity and to degenerate into affectation. 
Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells 
of monuments of marble and recesses formed 
. for retirement, with seats placed among bow- 
ers of greenhouse plants, and that the graves 
generally are covered with the gayest flowers 
of the season. He gives a casual picture of 
filial piety which I cannot but transcribe ; for 
I trust it is as useful as it is delightful to illus- 
trate the amiable virtues of the sex. "When I 
was at Berlin," says he, "I followed the cele- 
brated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with 
some pomp 3^ou might trace much real feeling. 



212 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

In the midst of the ceremony my attention was 
attracted by a young woman who stood on 
a mound of earth newly covered with turf, 
which she anxiously protected from the feet of 
the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her 
parent; and the figure of this affectionate 
daughter presented a monument more striking 
than the most costly work of art. ' ' 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral 
decoration that I once met with among the 
mountains of Switzerland. It was at the vil- 
lage of Gersau, which stands on the borders of 
the Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount 
Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniature 
republic shut up between the Alps and the 
lake, and accessible on the land side only by 
footpaths. The whole force of the republic 
did not exceed six hundred fighting men, and 
a few miles of circumference, scooped out as it 
were from the bosom of the mountains, com- 
prised its territory. The village of Gersau 
seemed separated from the rest of the world, 
and retained the golden simplicity of a purer 
age. It had a small church, with a burying- 
ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves^ 
were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some 
were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but 
evidentl}^ attempts at likenesses of the de- 
ceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of 
flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if 
occasionally renewed. I paused with interest 
at this scene; I felt that I was at the source of 
poetical description, for these were the beauti- 
ful but unaffected offerings of the heart which 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 21B 

poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more 
populous place I should have suspected them 
to have been suggested by factitious sentiment 
derived from books; but the good people of 
Gersau knew little of books; there was not a 
novel nor a love-poem in the village, and I 
question whether any peasant of the place 
dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet 
for the grave of his mistress, that he was ful- 
filling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical 
devotion, and that he was practically a poet. 



214 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE INN KITCHEN. 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? 

— Falstaff. 

During a journey that I once made through 
the Netherlands, I had arrived one evening at 
the Pomme d'Or, the principal inn of a small 
Flemish village. It was after the hour of the 
table d'hote, so that I was obliged to make a 
solitary supper from the relics of its ampler 
board. The weather was chilly ; I was seated 
alone in one end of a great gloomy dining- 
room, and, my repast being over, I had the 
prospect before me of a long dull evening, 
without any visible means of enlivening it. I 
summoned mine host and requested something 
to read; he brought me the whole literary 
stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, 
an almanac in the same language, and a num- 
ber of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing 
over one of the latter, reading old news and 
stale criticisms, my ear was now and then 
struck with bursts of laughter which seemed 
to proceed from the kitchen. Every one that 
has traveled on the Continent must know how 
favorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is 
to the middle and inferior order of travelers, 
particularly in that equivocal kind of weather 
when a fire becomes agreeable toward even- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 215 

ing. I threw aside the newspaper and explored 
my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at the 
group that appeared to be so merry. It was 
composed partly of travelers who had arrived 
some hours before in a diligence, and partly of 
the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. 
They were seated round a great burnished 
stove, that might have been mistaken for an 
altar at which they were worshiping. It was 
covered with various kitchen vessels of resplen- 
dent brightness, among which steamed and 
hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large lamp 
threw a strong mass of light upon the group, 
bringing out many odd features in strong re* 
lief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the 
spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into re- 
mote corners, except where they settled in mel- 
low radiance on the broad side of a flitch of 
bacon or were reflected back from well-scoured 
utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscur- 
ity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long gold- 
en pendants in her ears, and a necklace with 
a golden heart suspended to it, was the presid- 
ing priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with 
pipes, and most of them with some kind of 
evening potation. I found their mirth was 
occasioned by anecdotes which a little swarthy 
Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large 
whiskers, was giving of his love-adventures; 
at the end of each of which there was one of 
those bursts of honest unceremonious laughter 
in which a man indulges in that temple of 
true liberty, an inn. 



216 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

As I had no better mode of getting through 
a tedious blustering evening, I took my seat 
near the stove, and listened to a variety of 
travelers' tales, some very extravagant and 
most very dull. All of them, however, have * 
faded from my treacherous memory except 
one, which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, 
however, it derived its chief zest from the 
manner in which it was told, and the peculiar 
air and appearance of the narrator. He was a 
corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a vet- 
eran traveler. He was dressed in a tarnished 
green traveling jacket, with a broad belt 
round his waist, and a pair of overalls with 
buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was 
of a full rubicund countenance, with a double 
chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant twinkling 
eye. His hair was light, and curled from un- 
der an old green velvet traveling cap stuck on 
one side of his head. He was interrupted 
more than once by the arrival of guests or the 
remarks of his auditors, and paused now and 
then to replenish his pipe ; at which times he 
had generally a roguish leer and a sly joke for 
the buxom kitchen-maid. 

I wish my readers could imagine the old fel- 
low lolling in a huge arm-chair, one arm 
a-kimbo, the other holding a curiously twisted 
tobacco-pipe formed of genuine ecu7ne de mer^ 
decorated with silver chain and silken tassel, 
his head cocked on one side, and a whimsical 
cut of the eye occasionally as he related the 
following story : 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 217 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 

A traveler's tale.* 

On the summit of one of the heights of the 
Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper 
Germany that lies not far from the confluence 
of the Main and the Rhine, there stood many, 
many years since the castle of the Baron Von 
Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, 
and almost buried among beech trees and dark 
firs; above which, however, its old watch-tower 
may still be seen struggling, like the former 
possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high 
head and look down upon the neighboring 
country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great 
family of Katzenellenbogen,f and inherited 

*The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing 
lore, will perceive that the above Tale must have been 
suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, 
a circumstance said to have taken place in Paris. 
He that supper for is dight, 
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 
Yestreen to chamber I him led, 
This night Gray-steel has made his bed! 
Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. 

fl. e., Cat's Elbow — the name of a family of those 
parts, and very powerful in former times. The appella- 
ion, we are told, was given in compliment to a peer- 
less dame of the family, celebrated for a fine arm. 



218 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the relics of the property and all the pride, of 
his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition 
of his predecessors had mnch impaired the 
family possessions, yet the baron still endeav- 
ored to keep up some show of former state. 
The times were peaceable, and the German 
nobles in general had abandoned their incon- 
venient old castles, perched like eagles' nests 
among the mountains, and had built more con- 
venient residences in the valleys; still, the 
baron remained proudly drawn up in his little 
fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy 
all the old family feuds, so that he was on ill 
terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on 
account of disputes that had happened between 
their great-great-grandfathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter, 
but Nature, when she grants but one child, 
always compensates by making it a prodigy,; 
and so it was with the daughter of the baron. 
All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins 
assured her father that she had not her equal 
for beauty in all Germany; and who should 
know better than they? She had, moreover, 
been brought up with great care under the 
superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had 
spent some years of their early life at one of 
the little German courts, and were skilled in 
all branches of knowledge necessary to the 
education of a fine lady. Under their instruc- 
tions she became a miracle of accomplish- 
ments. By the time she was eighteen she 
could embroider to admiration, and had 
worked whole histories of the saints in tapes- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 219 

try with such strength of expression in their 
countenances that they looked like so many 
souls in purgatory. She could read without 
great difficulty, and had spelled her way 
through several Church legends and almost all 
the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She 
had even made considerable proficiency in 
writing; could sign her own name without 
missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts 
could read it without spectacles. She excelled 
in making little elegant good-for-nothing, lady- 
like nicknacks of all kinds, was versed in the 
most abstruse dancing of the day, played a 
number of airs on the harp and guitar, and 
knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders 
by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and 
coquettes in their younger days, were admir- 
ably calculated to be vigilant guardians and 
strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for 
there is no duenna so rigidly prudent and in- 
exorably decorous as a superannuated coquette. 
She was rarely suffered out of their sight ; 
never went beyond the domains of the castle 
unless well attended, or rather well watched ; 
had continual lectures read to her about strict 
decorum and implicit obedience ; and, as to the 
men — pah !— she was taught to hold them at 
such a distance and in such absolute distrust 
that, unless properly authorized, she would not 
have cast a glance upon the handsomest cav- 
alier in the world — no, not if he were even 
dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were won- 



220 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

derfuUy apparent. The young lady was a pat- 
tern of docility and correctness. While others 
were wasting their sweetness in the glare of 
the world, and liable to be plucked and thrown 
aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming 
into fresh and lovely womanhood under the 
protection of those immaculate spinsters, like 
a rosebud blushing forth among guardian 
thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride 
and exultation, and vaunted that, though all 
the other young ladies in the world might go 
astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind 
could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbo- 
gen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Land- 
short might be provided with children, his 
household was by no means a small one ; for 
Providence had enriched him with abundance 
of poor relations. They, one and all, poss- 
essed the affectionate disposition common to 
humble relatives — were wonderfully attached 
to the baron, and took every possible occasion 
to come in swarms and enliven the castle. All 
family festivals were commemorated by these 
good people at the baron's expense; and when 
they were filled with good cheer they would 
declare that there was nothing on earth so 
delightful as these family meetings, these jubi- 
lees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large 
soul, and it swelled with satisfaction at the 
consciousness of being the greatest man in the 
little world about him. He loved to tell long 
stories about the stark old warriors whose 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 221 

portraits looked grimly down from the walls 
around, and he found no listeners equal to 
those who fed at his expense. He was much 
given to the marvelous and a firm believer in 
all those supernatural tales with which every 
mountain and valley in Germany abounds. 
The faith of his guests exceeded even his own ; 
they listened to every tale of wonder with open 
eyes and mouth, and never failed to be aston- 
ished, even though repeated for the hundredth 
time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, 
the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of 
his little territory, and happy, above all things, 
in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of 
the age. 

At the time of which my story treats there 
was a great family gathering at the castle on 
an affair of the utmost importance: it was to 
receive the destined bridegroom of the baron's 
daughter. A negotiation had been carried on 
between the father and an old nobleman of 
Bavaria to unite the dignify of their houses by 
the marriage of their children. The prelimi- 
naries had beenconductedwithproperpunctilio. 
The young people were betrothed without 
seeing each other, and the time was appointed 
for the marriage ceremony. The young Count 
Von Altenburg had been recalled from the 
army for the purpose, and was actually on his 
way to the baron's to receive his bride. Mis- 
sives had even been received from him from 
Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained 
mentioning the day and hour when he might 
be expected to arrive. 



222 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to 
give him a suitable welcome. The fair bride 
had been decked out with uncommon care. 
The two aunts had superintended her toilet, 
and quarreled the whole morning about every 
article of her dress. The young lady had taken 
advantage of their contest to follow the bent 
of her own taste; and fortunately it was a 
good one. She looked as lovely as youthful 
bridegroom could desire, and the flutter of 
expectation heightened the lustfe of her 
charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and 
neck, the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye 
now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the 
soft tumult that was going on in her little 
heart. The aunts were continually hovering 
around her, for maiden aunts are apt to take 
great interest in affairs of this nature. They 
were giving her a world of staid counsel how 
to deport herself, what to say and in wnat 
manner to receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. 
He had in truth nothing exactly to do; but he 
was naturally a fuming bustling little man and 
could not remain passive when all the world 
was in a hurry. He worried from top to bot- 
tom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; 
he continually called the servants from their 
work to exhort them to be diligent ; and buzzed 
about every hall and chamber as idly restless 
and importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm 
summer's day. 

In the meantime the fatted calf had been 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 223 

killed; the forests had rung with the clamor 
of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded 
with good cheer; the cellars had yielded up 
whole oceans of Rhein-w^ein and Ferne-wein ; 
and even the great Heidelberg tun had been 
laid under contribution. Everything was 
ready to receive the distinguished guest with 
■ Saus und Braus in the true spirit of German hos- 
pitality; but the guest delayed to make his 
appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun 
that had poured his downward rays upon the 
rich forests of the Odenwald now just gleamed 
along the summits of the mountains. The 
baron mounted the highest tower and strained 
his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of 
the count and his attendants. Once he thought 
he beheld them; the sound of horns came 
floating from the valley prolonged by the 
mountain-echoes. A number of horsemen 
were seen far below slowly advancing along 
the road; but when they had nearly reached 
the foot of the mountain they suddenly struck 
off in a different direction. The last ray of 
sunshine departed, the bats began to flit by 
in the twilight, the road grew dimmer and 
dimmer to the view, and nothing appeared 
stirring in it but now and then a peasant lag- 
ging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this 
state of perplexity a very interesting scene 
was transacting in a different part of the Oden- 
wald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tran- 
quilly pursuing his. route in that sober jog-trot 



224 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

way in which a man travels toward matri- 
mony when his friends have taken all the 
trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his 
hands and a bride is waiting for him as cer- 
tainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. 
He had encountered at Wurtzburg- a youthful 
companion-in-arms with whom he had seen 
some service on the frontiers — Herman Von 
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and 
worthiest hearts of German chivalry — who was 
now returning from the army. His father's 
castle was not far distant from the old fortress 
of Landshort, although an hereditary feud ren- 
dered the families hostile and strangers to each 
other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition 
the young friends related all their past adven- 
tures and fortunes, and the count gave the 
whole history of his intended nuptials with a 
young lady whom he had never seen, but of 
whose charms he had received the most enrap- 
turing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same 
direction, they agreed to perform the rest of 
their journey together, and that they might do 
it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg 
at an early hour, the count having given direc- 
tions for his retinue to follow and overtake 
him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollec- 
tions of their military scenes and adventures, 
but the count was apt to be a little tedious now 
and then about the reputed charms of his bride 
and the felicity that awaited him. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 225 

In this way they had entered among the 
mountains of the Odenwald, and were travers- 
ing- one of its most lonely and thickly wooded 
passes. It is well known that the forests of 
Germany have always been as much infested 
by robbers as its castles by spectres, and at 
this time the former were particularly numer- 
ous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wan- 
dering about the country. It will not appear 
extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers 
were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, 
in the midst of the forest' They defended 
themselves with bravery, but were nearly over 
powered when the count's retinue arrived to 
their assistance. At sight of them the robbers 
iied, but not until the count had received a 
mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully 
conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a 
friar summoned from a neighboring convent 
who was famous for his skill in administering 
to both soul and body ; but half of his skill was 
superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate 
count were numbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend 
to repair instantly to the castle of Landshort 
and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping 
liis appointment with his bride. Though not 
the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the 
most punctilious of men, and appeared earn- 
estly solicitous that his mission should be speed- 
ily and courteously executed. ''Unless this is 
done," said he, "I shall not sleep quietly in 
my grave." He repeated these last words 
with peculiar solemnity. A request at a 

15 Sketch Book 



226 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

moment so impressive admitted no hesitation. 
Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to 
calmness, promised faithfully to execute his 
wish, and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. 
The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, 
but soon lapsed into delirium — raved about his 
bride, his engagements, his plighted word^ 
ordered his horse, that he might ride to the 
qastle of Landshort, and expired in the fancied 
act of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's 
tear on the untimely fate of his comrade and 
then pondered on the awkward mission he had 
undertaken. His heart was heavy and his head 
perplexed ; for he was to present himself an 
unbidden guest among hostile people, and to 
damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their 
hopes. Still, there were certain whisperings 
of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed 
beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut 
up from the world ; -for he was a passionate 
admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of 
eccentricity and enterprise in his character that 
made him fond of all singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due 
arrangements with the holy fraternity of the 
convent for the funeral solemnities of his 
friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral 
of Wurtzburg near some of his illustrious 
relatives, and the mourning retinue of the count 
took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to 
the ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who 
were impatient for their guest, and still more 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 227 

for their dinner, and to the worthy little baron, 
whom we left airing himself on the watch- 
tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. 
The baron descended from the tower in 
despair. The banquet, which had been 
delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be 
postponed. The meats were already overdone, 
the cook in an agony, and the whole household 
had the look of a garrison that had been reduced 
by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly 
to give orders for the feast without the pres- 
ence of the guest. All were seated at table, 
and just on the point of commencing, when 
the sound of a horn from without the gate gave 
notice of the approach of a stranger. Another 
long blast filled the old courts of the castle 
with its echoes, and was answered by the 
warder from the walls. The baron hastened 
to receive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the 
stranger was before the gate. He was a tall 
gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. 
His countenance was pale, but he had a beam- 
ing, romantic eye and an air of stately melan- 
choly. The baron was a little mortified that he 
should have come in this simple, solitary style. 
His dignity for a moment was rufiled, and he 
felt disposed to consider it a want of proper 
respect for the important occasion and the im- 
portant family with which he was to be con- 
nected. He pacified himself, however, with 
the conclusion that it must have been youthful 



228 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

impatience which had induced him thus to spui 
on sooner than his attendants. 

"I am sorry," said the stranger, "to breal^ 
in upon you thus unseasonably " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world 
of compliments and greetings, for, to tell the 
truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy and 
eloquence. The stranger attempted once or 
twice to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, 
so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. 
By the time the baron had come to a pause 
they had reached the inner court of the castle, 
and the stranger was again about to speak, 
when he was once moi;p interrupted by the 
appearance of the female part of the family, 
leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. 
He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced ; 
it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in 
the gaze and rested upon that lovely form. 
One of the maiden aunts whispered something 
in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her 
moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy 
glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast 
again to the ground. The words died away, 
but there was a sweet smile playing about her 
lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that 
showed her glance had not been unsatisfac- 
tor3^ It was impossible for a girl of the fond 
age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love 
and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gal- 
lant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived 
left no time for parley. The baron was per- 
emptory, and defei:red all particular conversa- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 229 

tion until the, morning, and led the way to the 
untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the cas- 
tle. Around the walls hung the hard-favored 
portraits of the heroes of the house of Katze- 
nellenbogen, and the trophies which they had 
gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked 
corselets, splintered jousting-spears, and tat- 
tered banmers were mingled with the spoils of 
sylvan warfare : the jaws of the wolf and the 
tusks of the boar grinned horribly among 
crossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of 
antlers branched immediately over the head of 
the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the com- 
pany or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted 
the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admira- 
tion of his bride. He conversed in a low tone 
that could not be overheard, for the language 
of love is never loud ; but where is the female 
ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest 
whisper of the lover? There was a mingled 
tenderness and gravity in his manner that 
appeared to have a powerful effect upon the 
young lady. Her color came and went as she 
listened with deep attention. • Now and then 
she made some blushing reply, and when his 
eye was turned away she would steal a side- 
long glance at his romantic countenance, and 
heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It 
was evident that the young couple were com- 
pletely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply 
versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared 



230 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

that they had fallen in love with each other at 
first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least nois- 
ily, for the guests were all blessed with those 
keen appetites that attend upon light purses 
and mountain air. The baron told his best 
and longest stories, and never had he told them 
so well or with such great effect. If there was 
anything marvelous, his auditors were lost in 
astonishment ; and if anything facetious, they 
were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. 
The baron, it is true, like most great men, was 
too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; 
it was always enforced, however, by a bumper 
of excellent Hockheimer, and even a dull joke 
at one's own table, served up with jolly old 
wine, is irresistible. Many good things were 
said by poorer and keener wits that would not 
bear repeating, except on similar occasions; 
many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears 
that almost convulsed them with suppressed 
laughter ; and a song or two roared out by a 
poor but merry and broad- faced cousin of the 
baron that absolutely made the maiden aunts 
hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry the stranger guest 
maintained a most singular and unreasonable 
gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper 
cast of dejection as the evening advanced, 
and, strange as it may appear, even the bar- 
on's jokes seemed only to render him the more 
melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, 
and at times there was a perturbed and rest- 
less wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 231 

but ill at ease. His conversations with the 
bride became more and more earnest and mys- 
terious. Lowering clouds began to steal over 
the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to 
run through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the 
company. Their gayety was chilled by the 
unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom ; their 
spirits were infected; whispers and glances 
were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs 
and dubious shakes of the head. The song 
and the laugh grew less and less frequent; 
there were dreary pauses in the conversation, 
which were at length succeeded by wild tales 
and supernatural legends. One dismal story 
produced another still more dismal, and the 
baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into 
hysterics with the history of the goblin horse- 
man that carried away the fair Leonora — a 
dreadful story which has since been put into 
excellent verse, and is read and believed by 
all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with 
profound attention. He kept his eyes steadily 
fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a 
close, began gradually to rise from his seat, 
growing taller and taller, imtil in the baron's 
entranced eye he seemed almost to tower into 
a giant. The moment the tale was finished 
he heaved a deep sigh and took a solemn fare- 
well of the company. They were all amaze- 
ment. The baron was perfectly thunderstruck. 

*' What! going to leave the castle at mid- 
night? Why, everything was prepared for his' 



232 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

reception ; a chamber was ready for him if he 
wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and 
mysteriously : * ' I must lay my head in a differ- 
ent chamber to-night." 

There was something in this reply and the 
tone in which it was uttered that made the 
baron's heart misgive him; but he rallied his 
forces and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but 
positively, at everj'- offer, and, waving his fare- 
well to the company, stalked slowly out of the 
hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely pet- 
rified ; the bride hung her head and a tear stole 
to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great 
court of the castle, where the black charger 
stood pawing the earth and snorting with im- 
patience. When they had reached the portal, 
whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a 
cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the 
baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the 
vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. 

*'Now that we are alone," said he, '*! will 
impart to you the reason of my going. I have 
a solemn, an indispensable engagement " 

"Why," said the baron, "cannot you send 
some one in your place?" 

' ' It admits of no substitute — I must attend it 
in person ; I must av/ay to Wurtzburg cathe- 
dral " 

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, 
"but not until to-morrow — to-morrow you 
shall take your bride there." 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 233 

*'No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold 
solemnity, "my engagement is with no bride — 
the worms! the worms expect me! I am a 
dead man — I have been slain by robbers — my 
body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to 
be buried — the grave is waiting for me — I 
must keep my appointment!" 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over 
the drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse's 
hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night 
blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost 
consternation, and related what had passed. 
Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened at 
the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. 
It was the opinion of some that this might be 
the wild huntsman, famous in German legend; 
Some talked of mountain- sprites, of wood- 
demons, and of other supernatural beings with 
which the good people of Germany have been 
so grievously harassed since time immemorial. 
One of the poor relations ventured to suggest 
that it might be some sportive evasion of the 
young cavalier, and that the very gloominess 
of the caprice seemed to accord with so melan- 
choly a personage. This, however, drew on 
him the indignation of the whole company, 
and especially of the baron, who looked upon 
him as little better than an infidel; so that he 
was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily, as 
possible and come into the faith of the true 
believers. 

But, whatever may have been the doubts en- 
tertained, they were completely put to an end 

16 Sketch Book 



234 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

by the arrival next day of regular missives con- 
firming the intellig'ence of the young count's 
murder and his interment in Wurtzburg cathe- 
dral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imag- 
ined. The baron shut himself up in his cham- 
ber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with 
him, could not think of abandoning him in his 
distress. They wandered about the courts or 
collected in groups in the hall, shaking their 
heads and shrugging their shoulders at the 
troubles of so good a man, and sat longer than 
ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly 
than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. 
But the situation of the widowed bride was the 
most pitiable. To have lost a husband before 
she had even embraced him — and such a hus- 
band ! If^ the very spectre could be so gracious 
and noble, what must have been the living 
man? She filled the house with lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widow- 
hood she had retired to her chamber, accom- 
panied by one of her aunts, who insisted on 
sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of 
the best tellers of ghost-stories in all Germany, 
had just been recounting one of her longest, 
and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. 
The chamber was remote and overlooked a 
small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing 
at the beams of the rising moon as they trem- 
bled on the leaves of an aspen tree before the 
lattice. The castle clock had just tolled mid- 
night when a soft strain of music stole up from 
the garden. She rose hastily from her bed 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 235 

and stepped lightly to the window. A tall fig- 
ure stood among the shadows of the trees. As 
it raised its head a beam of moonlight fell 
upon the countenance. Heaven and earth ! she 
beheld the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud 
shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and 
her aunt, who had been awakened by the mu- 
sic and had followed her silently to the win- 
dow, fell into her arms. When she looked 
again the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required 
the most soothing, for she was perfectly beside 
herself with terror. As to the young lady, 
there was something even in the spectre of her 
lover that seemed endearing. There was still 
the semblance of manly beauty, and, though 
the shadow of a man is but little calculated to 
satisfy the affections of a lovesick girl, yet 
where the substance is not to be had even that 
is consoling. The aunt declared she would 
never sleep in that chamber again; the niece, 
for once, was refractory, and declared as 
strongly that she would sleep in no other in 
the castle ; the consequence was, that she had 
to sleep in it alone; but she drew a promise 
from her aunt not to relate the story of the 
spectre, lest she should be denied the only mel- 
ancholy pleasure left her on earth — that of in- 
habiting the chamber over which the guardian 
shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have ob- 
served this promise is uncertain, for she dearly 
loved to talk of the marvelous, and there is a 
triumph in being the first to tell a frightful 



236 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Story; it is, however, still quoted in the neigh- 
borhood as a memorable instance of female 
secrecy that she kept it to herself for a whole 
week, when she was suddenly absolved from 
all further restraint by intelligence brought to 
the breakfast table one morning that the young 
lady was not to be found. Her room was 
empty — the bed had not been slept in — the 
window was open and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which 
the intelligence was received can only be im- 
agined by those who have witnessed the agita- 
tion which the mishaps of a great man cause 
among his friends. Even the poor relations 
paused for a moment from the indefatigable 
labors of the trencher, when the aunt, who 
had at first been struck speechleco, wrung her 
hands and shrieked out, "The goblin! the gob- 
lin! she's carried away by the goblin!" 

In a few words she related the fearful scene 
of the garden, and concluded that the spectre 
must have carried off his bride. Two of the 
domestics corroborated the opinion, for they 
had heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs 
down the mountain about midnight, and had 
no doubt that it was the spectre on his black 
charger bearing her away to the tomb. All 
present were struck with the direful probabil- 
ity, for events of the kind are extremely com- 
mon in Germany, as many well-authenticated 
histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the 
poor baron! What a heartrending dilemma 
for a fond father and a member of the great 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 23T 

family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daugh- 
ter had either been rapt away to the grave, or 
he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in- 
law, and perchance a troop of goblin grandchil- 
dren. As usual, he was completely bewil- 
dered, and all the castle^ in an uproar. The 
men were ordered to take horse and scoiaar 
every road and path and glen of the Odenvsrald. 
The baron himself had just drawn on his jacki- 
boots, girded on his sword, and was about to 
mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful 
quest, when he was brought to a pause by a 
new apparition. A lady was seen approacbfiig 
the castle mounted on a palfrey, attended hy 
a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to> 
the gate, sprang from her horse, and, falling; 
at the baron's feet, embraced his knees. It 
was his lost daughter, and her companion — the 
Spectre Bridegroom! The baron was a&- 
tounded. He looked at his daughter, then at 
the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence 
of his senses. The latter, too, was wonder- 
fully improved in his appearance since his visit- 
to the world of spirits. His dress was spleB- 
did, and set off a noble figure of manly sym- 
metry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. 
His fine countenance was flushed with the glow 
of youth, and jo}^ rioted in his large dark eye-,. 
The mystery was soon cleared up. The^ 
cavalier (for, in truth, as you must have known- 
all the while, he was no goblin) announced, 
himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He 
related his adventure with the young count. 
He told how he had hastened to the castle to 



238 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the 
eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in 
every attempt to tell his talC; How the sight 
of the bride had completely captivated him, 
and that to pass a few hours near her he had 
tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How 
he had been sorely perplexed in what way to 
make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin 
stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, 
fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he 
had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted 
the garden beneath the young lady's window — 
had wooed — had won — had borne away in tri- 
umph — and, in a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron 
would have been inflexible, for he was tenacious 
of paternal authority and devoutly obstinate in 
all family feuds ; but he loved his daughter ; he 
had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find 
her still alive; and, though her husband was 
of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven ! he was 
not a goblin. There was something, it must 
be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord 
with his notions of strict veracity in the joke 
the knight had passed upon him of his being a 
dead man; but several old friends present, 
who had served in the wars, assured him that 
every stratagem was excusable in love, and 
that the cavalier was entitled to especial priv- 
ilege, having lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. 
The baron pardoned the young couple on the 
spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. 
The poor relations overwhelmed this new mem- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 239 

ber of the family with loving-kindness ; he was 
so gallant, so generous — and so rich. The 
aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized 
that their system of strict seclusion and passive 
obedience should be so badly exemplified, but 
attributed it all to their negligence in not hav- 
ing the windows grated. One of them was 
particularly mortified at having her marvelous 
story marred, and that the only spectre she had 
ever seen should turn out a counterfeit ; but 
the niece seemed perfectly happy at having 
found him substantial flesh and blood. And 
so the story ends. 



240 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte, 
Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie. 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon. 
Could not content nor quench their appetite. 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

— Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B., 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy 
days in the latter part of autumn when the 
shadows of morning and evening almost 
mingle together, and throw a gloom over the 
decline of the year, I passed several hours in 
rambling about Westminster Abbey. There 
was something congenial to the season in the 
mournful magnificence of the old pile, and as 
I passed its threshold it seemed like stepping 
back into the regions of antiquity and losing 
myself among the shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westmin- 
ster School, through a long, low, vaulted pas- 
sage that had an almost subterranean look, 
being dimly lighted in one part by circular 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 241 

perforations in the massive walls. Through 
this dark avenue I had a distant view of the 
cloisters, with the figure of an old verger in his 
black gown moving along their shadowy vaults, 
and seeming like a spectre from one of the 
neighboring tombs. The approach to the 
abbe}^ through these gloomy monastic remains 
perpares the mind for its solemn contemplation. 
The cloisters still retain something of the quiet 
and seclusion of former days. The gray walls 
are discolored by damps and crumbling with 
age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over 
the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and 
obscured the death's heads and other funeral 
emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are 
gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the 
roses which adorned the key- stones have lost 
their leafy beauty; everything bears marks of 
the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet 
has something touching and pleasing in its 
very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autum- 
nal ray into the square of the cloisters, beam- 
ing upon a scanty plot of grass in the center, 
and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage 
with a kind of dusky splendor. From between 
the arcades the eye glanced up to a bit of blue 
sky or a passing cloud, and beheld the sun-gilt 
pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure 
heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contem- 
plating this mingled picture of glory and 
decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher 
the inscriptions on the tombstones which 



242 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye 
was attracted to three figures rudely carved in 
relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps 
of many generations. They were the effigies 
of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were 
entirely effaced; the names alone remained, 
having no doubt been renewed in later times 
(Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. 
Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius, Abbas. 11 76). I 
remained some little while, musing over these 
casual relics of antiquity thus left like wrecks 
upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale 
but that such beings had been and had per- 
ished, teaching no moral but the futility of that 
pride which hopes still to exact homage in its 
ashes and to live in an inscription. A little 
longer, and even these faint records will be 
obliterated and the monument will cease to be 
a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down 
upon the gravestones I was roused by the 
sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from 
buttress to buttress and echoing among the 
cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this 
warning of departed time sounding among the 
tombs and telling the lapse of the hour, which, 
like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the 
grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door 
opening to the interior of the abbey. On 
entering here the magnitude of the building 
breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with 
the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze 
with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic 
dimensions, with arches springing from them 
to such an amazing height, and man wander- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 243 

ing about their bases, shrunk into insignificance 
in comparison with his own handiwork. The 
spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice pro- 
duce a profound and mysterious awe. We step 
cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of dis- 
turbing the hallowed silence of the tomb, while 
every footfall whispers along the walls and 
chatters among the sepulchres, making us 
more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place 
presses down upon the soul and hushes the 
beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel 
that we are surrounded by the congregated 
bones of the great men of past times, who have 
filled history with their deeds and the earth 
with their renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the 
vanity of human ambition to see how they are 
crowded together and jostled in the dust ; what 
parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty 
nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, 
to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could 
not satisfy, and how many shapes and forms 
and artifices are devised to catch the casual 
notice of the passenger, and save from forget- 
fulness for a few short years a name which 
once aspired to occupy ages of the world's 
thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which 
occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross 
aisles of the abbey. The monuments are gen- 
erally simple, for the lives of literary men 
afford no striking themes for the sculptor. 
Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected 



244 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

to their memories, but the greater part have 
busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscrip- 
tions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these 
memorials, I have always observed that the 
visitors to the abbey remained longest about 
them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place 
of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with 
which they gaze on the splendid monuments of 
the great and the heroic. They linger a.bout 
these as about the tombs of friends and com- 
panions, for indeed there is something of com- 
panionship between the author and the reader. 
Other men are known to posterity only through 
the medium of history, which is continually 
growing faint and obscure; but the intercourse 
between the author and his fellow-men is ever 
new, active and immediate. He has lived for 
them more than for himself; he has sacrificed 
surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up 
from the delights of social life, that he might 
the more intimately commune with distant 
minds and distant ages. Well may the world 
cherish his renown, for it has been purchased 
not b}'- deeds of violence and blood, but by the 
diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may 
posterity be grateful to his memory, for he has 
left it an inheritance not of empty names and 
sounding actions, but whole treasures of wis- 
dom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins 
of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll 
towards that part of the abbey which contains 
the sepulchres of the kings. I wandered 
among what once were chapels, but which are 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 245 

now occupied by the tombs and monuments of 
the great. At every turn I met with some 
illustrious name or the cognizance of some 
powerful house renowned in history. As the 
eye darts into these dusky chambers of death 
it catches glimpses of quaint effigies — some 
kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others 
stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously 
pressed together; warriors in arm of, as if 
reposing after battle; prelates, with crosiers 
and mitres and nobles in robes and coronets, 
lying as it were in state. In glancing over this 
scene, so strangely populous, yet where every 
form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if 
we were treading a mansion of that fabled city 
where every being had been suddenly trans- 
muted into stone. 

I paused to contemplete a tomb on which lay 
the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A 
large buckler was on one arm; the hands were 
pressed together in supplication upon the 
breast; the face was almost covered by the 
morion; the legs were crossed, in token of the 
warrior's having been engaged in the holy 
war. It was the tomb of a crusader, of one of 
those military enthusiasts who so strangely 
mingled religion and romance, and whose 
exploits form the connecting link between fact 
and fiction, between the history and the fairy- 
tale. There is something extremely pictur- 
esque in the tombs of these adventurers, dec- 
orated as they are with rude armorial bearings 
and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the 
antiquated chapels in which they are generally 



246 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

found; and in considering them the imagina- 
tion is apt to kindle with the legendary associ- 
ations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous 
pomp and pageantry which poetry has spread 
over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. 
They are the relics of times utterly gone by, of 
beings passed from recollection, of customs and 
manners with which ours have no affinity. 

They are like objects from some strange and 
distant land of which we have no certain 
knowledge, and about which all our conceptions 
are vague and visionar)^ There is something 
extremely solemn and awful in those effigies 
on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of 
death or in the supplication of the dying hour. 
They have an effect infinitely more impressive 
on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the 
over-wrought conceits, the allegorical groups 
which abound on modern monuments. I have 
been struck, also, with the superiority of many 
of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was 
a noble way in former times of saying things 
simply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do 
not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier con- 
sciousness of family worth and honorable line- 
age than one which affirms of a noble house 
that "all the brothers were brave and all the 
sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner 
stands a monument which is among the most 
renowned achievements of modern art, but 
which to me appears horrible rather than sub- 
lime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by 
Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 247 

represented as throwing open its marble doors, 
and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The 
shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he 
launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking 
into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives 
with vain and frantic effort to avert the blow. 
The whole is executed with terrible truth and 
spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering 
yell of triumph bursting from the distended 
jaws of the spectre. But why should we thus 
seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, 
and to spread horrors round the tomb of those 
we love? The grave should be surrounded 
by everything that might inspire tenderness 
and veneration for the dead, or that might 
win the living to virtue. It is the place not of 
disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and med- 
itation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults 
and silent aisles, studying the records of the 
dead, the sound of busy existence from with- 
out occasionally reaches the ear — the rumbling 
of the passing equipage, the murmur of the 
multitude, or perhaps the light laugh of pleas- 
ure. The contrast is striking with the death- 
like repose around; and it has a strange effect 
upon the feelings thus to hear the surges of 
active life hurrying along and beating against 
the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb 
to tomb and from chapel to chapel. The day 
was gradually wearing away; the distant tread 
of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less 
frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was sum- 



248 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

moning to evening prayers; and I saw at adis^ 
tance the choristers in their white surplices 
crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I 
stood before the entrance to Henry the Sev- 
enth's chapel. A flight of steps leads up to it 
through a deep and gloomy but magnificent 
arch. Great gates of brass, richly and deli- 
cately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, 
as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of 
common mortals into this most gorgeous of 
sepulchres. 

On entering the eye is astonished by the 
pomp of architecture and the elaborate beauty 
of sculptured detail. The very walls are 
wrought into universal ornament encrusted 
with tracery, and scooped into niches crowded 
with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone 
seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to 
have been robbed of its weight and density, 
suspended aloft as if by magic, and the fretted 
roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness 
and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty 
stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved 
of oak, though with the grotesque decorations 
of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of 
the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of 
the knights, with their scarfs and swords, and 
above them are suspended their banners, em- 
blazoned with armorial bearings, and contrast- 
ing the splendor of gold and purple and crim- 
son with the cold ^ray fretwork of the roof. 
In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands 
the sepulchre of its founder — his effigy, with 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 249 

that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous 
tomb — and the whole surrounded by a superbly- 
wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnifi- 
cence, this strange mixture of tombs and tro- 
phies, these emblems of living and aspiring 
ambition, close beside mementos which show 
the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner 
or later terminate. Nothing impresses the 
mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness than 
to tread the silent and deserted scene of for- 
mer throng and pageant. On looking round 
on the vacant stalls of the knights and their 
esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gor- 
geous banners that were once borne before 
them, my imagination conjured up the scene 
when this hall was bright with the valor and 
beauty of the land, glittering with the splen- 
dor of jeweled rank and military array, alive 
with the tread of many feet and the hum of an 
admiring multitude. All had passed away; 
the silence of death had settled again upon the 
place, interrupted only by the casual chirping 
of birds, which had found their way into the 
chapel and built their nests among its friezes 
and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and 
desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the ban- 
ners, they were those of men scattered far and 
wide about the world — some tossing upon dis- 
tant seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; 
some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts 
and cabinets, — all seeking to deserve one more 



250 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors 
— the melancholy reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel 
present a touching instance of the equality of 
the grave, which brings down the oppressor to 
a level with the oppressed and mingles the 
dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one 
is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth; in 
the other is that of her victim, the lovely and 
unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day 
but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over 
the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation 
at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's 
sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of 
sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle 
where Mary lies buried. The light strugg'les 
dimly through windows darkened by dust. 
The greater part of the place is in deep sha- 
dow, and the walls are stained and tinted by 
time and weather. A marble figure of Mary 
is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an 
iron railing, much corroded, bearing her na- 
tional emblem — the thistle. I was weary with 
wandering, and sat down to rest myself by 
the monument, revolving in my mind the 
chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 

The sound of causal footsteps had ceased 
from the abbey. I could only hear, now and 
then, the distant voice of the priest repeating 
the evening service and the faint responses of 
the choir; these paused for a time, and all was 
hushed. The stillness, the desertion, and ob- 
scurity that were gradually prevailing around 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 251 

gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the 
place ; 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring 
organ burst upon the ear falling with doubled 
and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it 
were, huge billows of sound. How well do 
their volume and grandeur accord with this 
mighty building! With what pomp do they 
swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their 
awful harmony through these caves of death, 
and make the silent sepulchre vocal! And 
now they rise in triumphant acclamation, 
heaving higher and higher their accordant 
notes and piling sound on sound. And now 
they pause, and the soft voices of the choir 
break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they 
soar aloft and warble along the roof, and seem 
to play about these lofty vaults like the pure 
airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves 
its thrilling thunders, compressing air into 
music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What 
long-drawn cadences! What solemn sweeping 
concords ! It grows more and more dense and 
powerful; it fills the vast pile and seems to jar 
the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses 
are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up 
in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to 
heaven; the very soul seems rapt away and 



252 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

floated upwards on this swelling tide of har- 
mony. 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie 
which a strain of music is apt sometimes to 
inspire ; the shadows of evening were gradually 
thickening round me ; the monuments began 
to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the dis- 
tant clock again gave token of the slowly wan- 
ing day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As 
I descended the flight of steps which lead into 
the body of the building, my eye was caught 
by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I 
ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, 
to take from thence a general survey of this 
wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated 
upon a kind of platform, and close around it 
are the sepulchres of various kings and queens.. 
From this eminence the eye looks down be- 
tween pillars and funeral trophies to the chap- 
els and chambers below, crowded with tombs, 
where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and states- 
men lie mouldering in their "beds of dark- 
ness." Close by me stood the great chair of 
coronation, rudely carved of oak in the barbar- 
ous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The 
scene seemed almost as if contrived with the- 
atrical artifice to produce an effect upon the 
beholder. Here was a type of the beginning 
and the end of human pomp and power; here 
it was literally but a step from the throne to 
the sepulchre. Would not one think that these 
incongruous mementos had been gathered to- 
gether as a lesson to living greatness? — to show 



♦ THE SKETCH BOOK. 253 

it, even in the moment of its proudest exalta. 
tion, the neglect and dishonor to which it must 
soon arrive — how soon that crown which en- 
circles its brow must pass away; and it must 
lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, 
and be trampled upon by the feet of the mean, 
est of the multitude. For, strange to tell, 
even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. 
There is a shocking levity in some natureL\ 
which leads them to sport with awful and hal- 
lowed things, and there are base minds which 
delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the 
abject homage and groveling servility which 
they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward 
the Confessor has been broken open, and his 
remains despoiled of their funereal ornaments; 
the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of 
the imperious Elizabeth; and the effigy oi: 
Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a roya] 
monurrient but bears some proof how false and 
fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are 
plundered, some mutilated, some covered with 
ribaldry and insult, all more or less out- 
raged and dishonored. 

The last beams of day were now faintly 
streaming through the painted windows in the 
high vaults above me ; the lower parts of the 
abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity 
of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew 
darker and darker. The effigies of the kings 
faded into shadows; the marble figures of the 
nomuments assumed strange shapes in the un- 
certain light ; the evening breeze crept through 
the aisles like the cold breath of the orrave; 



254 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and even the distant footfall of a verger, trav- 
ersing- the Poet's Corner, had something 
strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly re- 
traced my morning's walk, and as I passed out 
at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing 
with a jarring noise behind me, filled the 
whole building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in 
my mind of the objects I had been contemplat- 
ing, but found they were already falling into 
indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscrip- 
tions, trophies, had all become confounded in 
my recollection, though I had scarcely taken 
my foot from off the threshold. What, thought 
I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a 
treasury of humiliation — a huge pile of reiter- 
ated homilies on the emptiness of renown and 
the certainty of oblivion? It is, indeed, the 
empire of death ; his* great shadowy palace 
where he sits in state mocking at the relics of 
human glory and spreading dust and forget- 
fulness on the monuments of princes. How 
idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a 
name ! Time is ever silently turning over his 
pages; we are too much engrossed by the 
story of the present to think of the characters 
and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; 
and each age is a volume thrown aside to be 
speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes 
the hero of yesterday out of our recollection, 
and will in turn be supplanted by his successor 
of to-morrow. "Our fathers," says Sir Thomas 
Browne, "find their graves in our short mem- 
ories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 255 

in our survivors, ' ' History fades into fable ; 
fact becomes clouded with doubt and contro- 
versy ; the inscription moulders from the tab- 
let; the statue falls from the pedestal. Col- 
umns, arches, pyramids, what are they but 
heaps of sand, and their epitaphs but characters 
written in the dust? What is the security of 
a tomb or the perpetuity of an embalmment? 
The remains of Alexander the Great have 
been scattered to the wind, and his empty sar- 
cophagus is now the mere curiosity of a muse- 
um. "The Egyptian mummies, which Cam- 
byses or time hath spared, avarice now con- 
sumeth ; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh 
is sold for balsams."* 

What then is to ensure this pile which now 
towers above me from sharing the fate of 
mightier mausoleums? The time must come 
when its gilded vaults which now spring so 
loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; 
when instead of the sound of melody and 
praise the wind shall whistle through the 
broken arches and the owl hoot from the shat- 
tered tower; when the garish sunbeam shall 
break into these gloomy mansions of death, 
and the ivy twine round the fallen column 
. and the fox-glove hang its blossoms above the 
nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. 
Thus man passes away; his name passes from 
record and recollection ; his history as a tale 
that is told, and his very monument becomes 
a ruin. 

*Sir T. Browne 



256 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



CHRISTMAS. 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothin-?; 
but the hair of his good, gray old head and beard left? 
Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of 
him. 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
GkxDd fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gate were not chidden 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

Nothing in England exercises a more de- 
lightful spell over my imagination than the 
lingerings of the holiday customs and rural 
games of former times. They recall the pic- 
tures my fancy used to draw in the May morn- 
ing of life, when as yet I only knew the world 
through books, and believed it to be all that 
poets had painted it ; and they bring with them 
the flavor of those honest da3/s of yore, in 
which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt 
to think the world was more homebred, social, 
and joyous than at present. I regret to say 
that they are daily growing more and more 
faint, being gradually worn away by time. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 25T 

but still more obliterated by modern fashion. 
They resemble those picturesque morsels of 
Gothic architecture which we see crumbling in 
various parts of the country, partly diplia- 
dated by the waste of ages and partl}^ lost in 
the additions and alterations of latter days. 
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fond- 
ness about the rural game and holiday revel 
from which it has derived so many of its 
. themes, as the ivy winds its rich foliage about 
the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, grate- 
fully repaying their support by clasping to- 
gether their tottering remains, and, as it were, 
embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of 
Christmas awakens the strongest and most 
heartfelt associations. There is a tone of 
solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our 
conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of 
hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The ser- 
vices of the Church about this season are ex- 
tremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on 
the beautiful stor)'' of the origin of our faith 
and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its 
announcement. They gradually increase in 
fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, 
until they break forth in full jubilee on the 
morning that brought peace and good-will to 
men. I do not know of a grander effect of 
music on the moral feelings than to hear the 
full choir and the pealing organ performing a 
Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling 
every part of the vast pile with triumphant 
harmony. 

17 Sketch Book 



258 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived 
from days of yore, that this festival, which 
commemorates the announcement of the 
religion of peace and love, has been made the 
season for gathering together of family con- 
nections, and drawing closer again those bands 
of kindred hearts which the cares and pleas- 
ures and sorrows of the world are continually 
operating to cast loose; of calling back the 
children of a family who have launched forth 
in life and wandered wildly asunder, once more 
to assemble about the paternal hearth, that 
rallying-place of the affections, there to grow 
young and loving again among the endearing 
mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the 
year that gives a charm to the festivity of 
Christmas. At other times we derive a great 
portion of our pleasures from the mere 
beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth 
and dissipate themselves over the sunny land- 
scape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." 

The song of the bird, the murmur of the 
stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the 
soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden 
pomp of autumn, earth with its mantle of re- 
freshing green, and heaven with its deep de- 
licious blue and its cloudy magnificence, — all 
fill us with mute but exquisite delight^ and we 
revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in 
the depth of winter, when Nature lies de- 
spoiled of every charm and wrapped in her 
shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our grati- 
fications to moral sources. The dreariness 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 259 

and desolation of the landscape, the short 
gloomy days and darksome nights, while they 
circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feel- 
ings also from rambling abroad, and make us 
more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the 
social circle. Our thoughts are more concen- 
trated ; our friendly sympathies more aroused. 
We feel more sensibly the charm of each 
other's society, and are brought more closely 
together by dependence on each other for en- 
joyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we 
draw our pleasures from the deep wells of lov- 
ing-kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of 
our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, 
furnish forth the pure element of domestic 
felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart 
dilate on entering the room filled with the glow 
and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy 
blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine 
through the room, and lights up each counte- 
nance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the 
honest face of hospitality expand into a 
broader and more cordial smile, where is the 
shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent, 
than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow 
blast of wintry winds rushes through the hall, 
claps the distant door, whistles about the case- 
ment, and rumbles down the chimney, what 
can be more grateful than that feeling of 
sober and sheltered security with which we 
look round upon the comfortable chamber and 
the scene of domestic hilarity? 

The English, from the great prevalence of 



260 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

rural habit throughout every class of society, 
have always been fond of those festivals and 
holidays, which agreeably interrupt the still- 
ness of country life, and they were, in former 
days, particularly observant of the religious 
and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring, 
to read even the dry details which some anti- 
quaries have given of the quaint humors, the 
burlesque pageants, the complete abandon- 
ment to mirth and good-fellowship with which 
this festival was celebrated. It seemed to 
throw open every door and unlock every 
heart. It brought the peasant and the peer 
together, and blended all ranks in one warm, 
generous flow of joy and kindness. The old 
halls of castles and manor-houses resounded 
with the harp and the Christmas carol, and 
their ample boards groaned under the weight 
of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage wel- 
comed the festive season with green decora- 
tions of bay and holly — the cheerful fire 
glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting 
the passengers to raise the latch and join the 
gossip knot huddled round the hearth beguil- 
ing the long evening with legendary jokes and 
oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern 
refinement is the havoc it has made among the 
hearty old holiday customs. It has completely 
taken off the sharp touchings and spirited re- 
liefs of these embellishments of life, and has 
worn down socity into a more smooth and pol- 
ished, but certainl}^ a less characteristic surface. 
Many of the games and ceremonials of Christ- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 261 

mas have entirely disappeared, and, like the 
sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become mat- 
ters of speculation and dispute among com- 
mentators. They flourished in times full of 
spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life 
roughly, but heartily and vigorously — times 
wild and picturesque, which have furnished 
poetry with its richest materials and the 
drama with its most attractive variety of 
characters and manners. The world has be- 
come more worldly. There is more of dissi- 
pation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has 
expanded into a broader, but a shallower 
stream, and has forsaken many of those deep 
and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly 
through the calm bosom of domestic life. So- 
ciety has acquired a more enlightened and ele- 
gant tone, but it has lost many of its strong 
local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its 
honest fireside delights. The traditionary cus- 
toms of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal 
hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have 
passed away with the baronial castles and 
stately manor-houses in which they were cele- 
brated. They comported with the shadowy 
hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapes- 
tried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy 
saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern 
villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and 
festive honors, Christmas is still a period of 
delightful excitement in England. It is grat- 
ifying to see that home-feeling completely 
aroused which holds so powerful a place in 



262 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

every English bosom. The preparations mak- 
ing on every side for the social board that is 
again to unite friends and kindred ; the pres- 
ents of good cheer passing and repassing, those 
tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feel- 
ings ; the evergreens distributed about houses 
and churches, emblems of peace and gladness, 
— all these have the most pleasing effect in 
producing fond associations and kindling 
benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of 
the Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, 
breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night 
with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have 
been awakened by them in that still and 
solemn hour "when deep sleep falleth upon 
man," I have listened with a hushed delight, 
and, connecting them with the sacred and joy- 
ous occasion, have almost fancied them into 
another celestial choir announcing peace and 
good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when 
wrought upon by these moral influences, turns 
everything to melody and beauty! The very 
crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the 
profound repose of the country, "telling the 
night-watches to his feathery dames," was 
thought by the common people to announce 
the approach of this sacred festival. 

"Some say that ever 'gamst that season comes 
Wherein our Savior's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow 'd and so gracious is the time." 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 263 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bus- 
tle of the spirits, and stir of the affections 
which prevail at this period what bosom can 
remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season 
of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling 
not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, 
but the genial flame of charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to 
memory beyond the sterile waste of years; 
and the idea of home, fraught with the frag- 
rance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the 
drooping spirit, as the Arabian breeze will 
sometimes waft the freshness of the distant 
fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land, 
though for me no social hearth may blaze, no 
hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the 
warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the 
threshold, yet I feel the influence of the 
season beaming into my soul from the happy 
looks of those around me. Surely happiness 
is reflective, like the light of heaven, and 
every countenance, bright with smiles and 
glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror 
transmitting to others the rays of a supreme 
and ever- shining benevolence. He who can 
turn churlishly away from contemplating 
the felicity of his fellow- beings, and can sit 
down darkling and repining in his loneliness 
when all around is joyful, may have his mo- 
ments of strong excitement and selfish gratifi- 
cation, but he wants the genial and social 
sympathies which constitute the charm of a 
merry Christmas. 



264 THE SKETCH BOOK- 



THE STAGE-COAGH. 

Omne bene 

Sine poena 
Tempua est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

—Old Holiday School- Song. 

In the preceding paper I have made some 
general observations on the Ghristmas festiv- 
ities of England, and am tempted to illustrate 
them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed 
in the country ; in perusing which I would most 
courteously invite my reader to lay aside the 
austerity of wisdom, and to put on that gen- 
uine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly 
and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in York- 
shire, I rode for a long distance in one of the 
public coaches on the day preceding Christmas. 
The coach was crowded, both inside and out, 
with passengers who, by their talk, seemed 
principally bound to the mansions of relations 
or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It 
was loaded also with hampers of game and 
baskets and boxes of delicacies, and hares hung 
dangling their long ears about the coachman's 
box, presents from distant friends for the 
impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked 






Stoke Pogis Church. - 

bketrh Book, 



-Page 14'J 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 265 

school-bo5^s for my fellow-passengers inside, 
full of the buxom health and manly spirit 
which I have observed in the children of this 
country. They were returning home for the 
holidays in high glee, and promising them- 
selves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful 
to hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues, 
and the impracticable feats they were to per- 
form during their six weeks' emancipation from 
the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and ped- 
agogue. They were full of anticipations of the 
meeting with the family and household, down 
to the very cat and dog, and of the joy they 
were to give their little sisters by the presents 
with which their pockets were crammed; but 
the meeting to which they seemed to look for- 
ward with the greatest impatience was with 
Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, 
according to their talk, possessed of more vir- 
tues than any steed since the days of Bu- 
cephalus. How he could trot! how he could 
run ! and then such leaps as he would take ! — 
there was not a hedge in the whole country 
that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship 
of the coachman, to whom, whenever an oppor- 
tunity presented, they addressed a host of 
questions, and pronounced him one of the best 
fellows in the Vv^orld. Indeed, I could not but 
notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and 
importance of the coachman, who wore his hat 
a little on one side and had a large bunch of 
Christmas greens stuck in the buttonhole of his 
coat. He is always a personage full of mighty 

18 Sketch Book 



266 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

care and bnsiness, but he is particularly so dur- 
ing this season, having so many commissions 
to execute in consequence of the great inter- 
change of presents. And here, perhaps, it 
may not be unacceptable to my untraveled 
readers to have a sketch that may serve as a 
general representation of this very numerous 
and important class of functionaries, who have 
a dress, a manner, a language, an air peculiar 
to themselves and prevalent throughout the 
fraternity; so that whenever an Eng- 
lish stage-coachman may be seen he cannot be 
mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously 
mottled with red, as if the blood had been 
forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the 
skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by 
frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk 
is still further increased by a multiplicity of 
coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, 
the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears 
a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge roll 
of colored handkerchief about his neck, know- 
ingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom ; and 
has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers 
in his buttonhole, the present, most probably, 
of some enamored country lass. His waistcoat 
is commonly of some bright color, striped, and 
his small-clothes extend far below the knees, 
to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about 
halfway up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much 
precision; he has a pride in having his clothes 
of excellent materials, and, notwithstanding 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 267 

the seeming grossness of his appearance, there 
is still discernible that neatness and proprietjr 
of person which is almost inherent in an Eng- 
lishman. He enjoys great consequence and 
consideration along the road; has frequent 
conferences with the village housewives, who 
look upon him as a man of great trust and 
dependence; and he seems to have a good 
understanding with every bright-eyed country- 
lass. The moment he arrives where the horses 
are to be changed, he throws down the reins 
with something of an air and abandons the 
cattle to the care of the ostler, his duty being" 
merely to drive from one stage to another. 
When off the box his hands are thrust into the 
pockets of his great coat, and he rolls about 
the inn-yard with an air of the most absolute 
lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded 
by an admiring throng of ostlers, stable-boys, 
shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on 
that infest inns and taverns, and run errands 
and do all kinds of odd jobs for the privilege of 
battening on the drippings of the kitchen and 
the leakage of the tap-room. These all look 
up to him as to an oracle, treasure up his cant 
phrases, echo his opinions about horses and 
other topics of jockey lore, and, above all, 
endeavor to im.itate his air and carriage. Every 
ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts 
his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks 
slang, and is an embryo Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing- 
serenity that reigned in my own mind that I 
fancied I saw cheerfulness in every counte- 



268 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

nance throughout the journey. A stage-coach, 
however, carries animation always with it, and 
puts the world in motion as it whirls along. 
The horn, sounded at the entrance of the vil- 
lage, produces a general bustle. Some hasten 
forth to meet friends; some with bundles and 
bandboxes to secure places, and in the hurry 
of the moment can hardly take leave of the 
group that accompanies them. In the mean- 
time the coachman has a world of small com- 
missions to execute. Sometimes he delivers 
a hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small 
parcel or newspaper to the door of a public 
house ; and sometimes, with knowing leer and 
words of sly import, hands to some half-blush- 
ing, half-laughing housemaid and odd-shaped 
billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the 
coach rattles through the village every one 
runs to the window, and you have glances on 
every side of fresh country faces and blooming 
giggling girls. At the. corners are assembled 
juntos of village idlers and wise men, who take 
their stations there for the important purpose 
of seeing company pass ; but the sagest knot 
is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the 
passing of the coach is an even fruitful of much 
speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel 
in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the 
Cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing 
hammers and suffer the iron to grow cool ; and 
the sooty spectre in brown paper cap laboring 
at the bellows leans on the handle for a 
moment, and permits the asthmetic engine to 
heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 269 

through the murky smoke and sulphurous 
gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have 
given a more than usual animation to the coun- 
try, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in 
good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, 
and other luxuries of the table were in brisk 
circulation in the villages; the grocers', 
butchers', and fruiters' shops were thronged 
with customers. The housewives were stirring 
briskly about, putting their dwellings in order, 
and the glossy branches of holly with their 
bright-red berries began to appear at the win- 
dows. The scene brought to mind an old 
writer's account of Christmas preparation: 
"Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, 
and ducks, with beef and mutton, must all die, 
for in twelve days a multitude of people will 
not be fed with a little. Now plums and 
spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies 
and broth. Now or never must music be in 
tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get 
them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. 
The country maid leaves half her market, and 
must be sent again if she forgets a pack of 
cards on Christmas Eve. Great is the conten- 
tion of holly and ivy whether master or dame 
wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the 
butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will 
sweetly lick his fingers. 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious medi- 
tation by a shout from my little traveling com- 
panions. They had been looking out of the 
coach-windows for the last few miles, recogniz- 



270 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

iMg every tree and cottag e as they approached 
home, and now there was a general burst of 
joy. "There's John! and there's old Carlo! 
and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little 
Sjognes, clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober- 
looking servant in livery waiting for them ; he 
^^as accompanied by a superannuated pointer 
wnd by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat 
mi a pony with a shaggy mane and long rusty 
tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside,, 
little dreaming of the bustling times that 
awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which 
'&& little fellows leaped about the steady old 
f®»tnian and hugged the pointer, who wriggled 
hm whole body for joy. But Bantam was the 
g;reat object of interest; all wanted to mount 
ssX once, and it was with some difficulty that 
John arranged that they should ride by turns 
and the eldest should ride first. 

Off they set at last, one on the pony, with 
the dog bounding and barking before him, and 
tine others holding John's hands, both talking 
at once and overpowering him with questions 
atjsomt home and with school anecdotes. I 
loo'ked after them with a feeling in which I do 
mtjt know whether pleasure or melancholy pre- 
^mmmsited ; for I was reminded of those days 
wiiieii, like them, I had known neither care nor 
siMTow and a holiday was the summit of earthly 
fsdltcity. We stopped a few moments after- 
awards to water the horses, and on resuming 
^UT route a turn of the road brought us in 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 271 

sight of a neat country-seat. I could just dis- 
tinguish the forms of a lady and two young 
girls in the portico, and I saw my little com- 
rades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, 
trooping along the carriage-road. I leaned out 
of the coach- window, in hopes of witnessing 
the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut 
it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where 
I had determined to pass the night. As we 
drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw 
on one side the light of a rousing kitchen-fire 
beaming through a window. I entered, and 
admired, for the hundredth time, that picture 
of convenience, neatness, and broad honest 
enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It 
was of spacious dimensions, hung around with 
copper and tin vessels, highly polished, and 
decorated here and there with a Christmas 
green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon 
were suspended from the ceiling, a smoke- jack 
made its ceaseless clankine beside the fire- 
place, and a clock ticked in one corner. A 
well-scoured deal table extended along one side 
of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef and 
other hearty viands upon it, over which two 
foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting 
guard. Travelers of inferior order were pre- 
paring to attack this stout repast, while others 
sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two 
high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. 
Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards 
and forwards under the directions of a fresh 
bustling landlady, but still seizing an occa- 



272 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

sional moment to exchange a flippant word and 
have a rallying laugh with the group round the 
fire. The scene completely realized Poor 
Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid- 
winter : 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire. 
Are things this season doth require,* 

I had not been long at the inn when a post- 
chaise drove up to the door. A young gentle- 
man stepped out, and by the light of the lamps 
I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I 
thought I knew. I moved forward to- get a 
nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I 
was not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, 
a sprightly, good-humored young fellow with 
whom I had once traveled on the Continent. 
Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the 
countenance of an old fellow-traveler always 
brings up the recollection of a thousand pleas- 
ant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent 
jokes. To discuss all these in a transient in- 
terview at an inn was impossible; and, finding 
that I was not pressed for time and was merely 
making a tour of observation, he insisted that 
I should give him a day or two at his father's 
country seat, to which he was going to pass 
the holidays and which lay at a few miles' dis- 
tance. "It is better than eating a solitary 
Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I 

*Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 273 

can assure you of a hearty welcome in some- 
thing of the old-fashioned style. ' ' His reason- 
ing was cogent, and I must confess the prepar- 
ation I had seen for universal festivity and 
social enjoyment had made me feel a little im- 
patient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, 
at once with his invitation ; the chaise drove 
up to the door, and in a few moments I was 
on my way to the family mansion of the Brace- 
bridges. 



274 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weasels, rats and ferrets : 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

— Cartwright- 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but ex- 
tremely cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly over 
the frozen ground; the postboy smacked his 
whip incessantly, and a part of the time his 
horses were on a gallop. "He knows where 
he is going," said my companion, laughing, 
"and is eager to arrive in time for some of the 
merriment and good cheer of the servants' 
hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted 
devotee of the old school, and prides himself 
upon keeping up something of old English hos- 
pitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what 
you will rarely meet with nowadays in its pur- 
ity, the old English country gentleman; for 
our men of fortune spend so much of their 
time in town, and fashion is carried so much 
into the country, that the strong rich peculi- 
arities of ancient rural life are almost polished 
away. My father, however, from early years, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 275 

took honest Peacham* for his text-book, in- 
stead of Chesterfield; he determined in his 
own mind that there was no condition more 
truly honorable and enviable than that of a 
coimtry gentleman on his paternal lands, and, 
therefore, passes the whole of his time on his 
estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the re- 
vival of the old rural games and holiday obser- 
vances, and is deeply read in the writers, 
ancient and modern, who have treated on the 
subject. Indeed, his favorite range of reading 
is among the authors who flourished at least 
two centuries since, who, he insists, wrote and 
thought more like true Englishmen than any 
of their successors. He even regrets some- 
times that he had not been born a few centur- 
ies earlier, when England was itself and had 
its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives 
at some distance from the main road, in rather 
a lonely part of the country, without any rival 
gentry near him,, he has that most enviable of 
all blessings to an Englishman — an opportu- 
nity of indulging the bent of his own humor 
without molestation. Being representative of 
the oldest family in the neighborhood, and a 
great part of the peasantry being his tenants, 
he is much looked up to, and in general is 
known simply by the appellation of 'The 
Squire'— a title which has been accorded to the 
head of the family since time immemorial. I 
think it best to give you these hints about my 
worthy old father, to prepare you for any 

*Peachara's "Complete Gentlemen," 1622. 



276 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

eccentricities that might otherwise appear 
absurd. ' ' 

We had passed for some time along the wall 
of a park, and at length the chaise stopped at 
the gate. It was in a heavy, magnificent old 
style, of iron bars fancifnlly wrought at top 
into flourishes and flowers. The huge square 
columns that supported the gate were sur- 
mounted by the family crest. Close adjoining 
was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir 
trees and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell which 
resounded through the still frosty air, and was 
answered by the distant barking of dogs, with 
which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. 
An old v/oman immediately appeared at the 
gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon 
her, I had a full view of a little primitive 
dame, dressed very much in the antique taste, 
with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her 
silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy 
whiteness. She came curtseying forth, with 
many expressions of simple joy at seeing her 
young master. Her husband, it seemed, was 
up at the house keeping Christmas Eve in the 
servants' hall; they could not do without him, 
as he was the best hand at a song and story in 
the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight 
and walk through the park to the hall, which 
was at no great distance, while the chaise 
should follow on. Our road wound through a 
noble avenue of trees, among the naked 
branches of which the moon glittered as she 



THE, SKETCH BOOK. 27-3 

rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless 
sky. The lawn be3^ond was sheeted with a 
slight covering of snow, which here and there 
sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty 
crystal, and at a distance might be seen a thin 
transparent vapor stealing up from the low 
grounds and threatening gradually to shroud 
the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with 
transport. "How often," said he, *'have I 
scampered up this avenue on returning home 
on school vacations! How often have I played 
under these trees when a boy! I feel a degree 
of filial reverence for them, as we look up to 
those who have cherished us in childhood. 
My father was always scrupulous in exacting 
our holidays and having us around him on fam- 
ily festivals. He used to direct and superin- 
tend our games with the strictness that some 
parents do the studies of their children. He 
was very particular that we should play the 
old English games according to their original 
form, and consulted old books for precedent 
and authorit}^ for every 'merrie disport' ; yet 
I assure you there never was pedantry so de- 
lightful. It was the policy of the good old 
gentleman to make his children feel that home 
was the happiest place in the world ; and I 
value this delicious home- feeling as one of the 
choicest gifts a parent could bestow. ' ' 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop 
of dogs of all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, 
whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree," 
that, disturbed by the ring of the, porter's bell 



278 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, 
open-mouthed, across the lawn. 

'* ' The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me!' " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of 
his voice the bark was changed into a yelp of 
delight, and in a moment he was surrounded 
and almost overpowered by the caresses of the 
faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old 
family mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow 
and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It 
was an irregular building of some magnitude, 
and seemed to be of the architecture of differ- 
ent periods. One wing was evidently very 
ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow win- 
dows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from 
among the foliage of which the small diamond- 
shaped panes of glass glittered with the moon- 
beams. The rest of the house was in the 
French taste of Charles the Second's time, hav- 
ing been repaired and altered, as my friend 
told me, by one of his ancestors who returned 
with that monarch at the Restoration. The 
grounds about the house were laid out in the 
old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, 
clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy 
stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a 
leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The 
old gentleman, I was told, was extremely care- 
ful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its 
original state. He admired this fashion in 
gardening; it had an air of magnificence, was 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 279 

courtly and noble, and befiting good old family 
style. The boasted imitation of Nature in 
modern gardening had sprung up with modern 
republican notions but did not suit, a monarch- 
ical government ; it smacked of the leveling 
system. I could not help smiling at this intro- 
duction of politics into gardening, though I 
expressed some apprehension that I should find 
the old gentleman rather intolerant in his 
creed. Frank assured me, however, that it 
was almost the only instance in which he had 
ever heard his father meddle with politics; 
and he believed that he had got this notion 
from a member of Parliament who once passed 
a few weeks with him. The squire was glad 
of any argument .to defend his clipped yew- 
trees and formal terraces, which had been oc- 
casionally attacked by modern landscape gar- 
deners. 

As we approached the house we heard the 
sound of music, and now and then a burst of 
laughter from one end of the building. This, 
Bracebridge said, must proceed from the ser- 
vants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was 
permitted, and even encouraged, by the squire 
throughout the twelve days of Christmas, pro- 
vided everything was done conformably to an- 
cient usage. Here were kept up the old games 
of hood man blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cock- 
les, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap 
dragon; the Yule-clog and Christmas candle 
were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe with 



280 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

its white berries hung up, to the imminent 
peril of all the pretty housemaids. * 

So intent were the servants upon their sports 
that we had to ring repeatedly before we could 
make ourselves heard. On our arrival being 
announced the squire came out to receive us, 
accompanied by his two other sons — one a 
young officer in the army, home on a leave of 
absence ; the other an Oxonian, just from the 
university. The squire was a fine healthy look- 
ing old gentleman, with silver hair curling 
lightly around an open florid countenance, in 
which the physiognomist, with the advantage, 
like myself, of a previous hint or two, might 
discover a singular mixture of whim and 
benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affect 
tionate; as the evening was far advanced, the 
squire would not permit us to change our 
traveling dresses, but ushered us at once to 
the company, which was assembled in a large 
old-fashioned hall. It was composed of differ- 
ent branches of a numerous family connec- 
tion, where there were the usual proportion of 
old uncles and aunts, comfortable married 
dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming 
country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and 
bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They 
were variously occupied — some at a round 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farm houses and 
kitchens at Christmas, and the young men have the 
privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each 
time a'^berry from the bush. When the berries are all 
plucked the privilege ceases. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 281 

game of cards ; others conversing around the 
fireplace; at one end of the hall was a group 
of the young folks, some nearly grown up, 
others of a more tender and budding age, 
fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a pro- 
fusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and 
tattered dolls about the floor showed traces 
of a troop of little fairy beings who, having 
frolicked through a happy day, had been 
carried off to slumber through a peaceful 
night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on 
between young Bracebridge and his relatives 
I had time to scan the apartment. I have 
called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in 
old times, and the squire had evidently en- 
deavored to restore it to something of its prim- 
itive state. Over the heavy projecting fire- 
place was suspended a picture of a warrior in 
armor, standing by a white horse, and on the 
opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and 
lance. At one end an enormous pair of ant- 
lers were inserted in the wall, the branches 
serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, 
whips, and spurs, and in the corners of the 
apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, 
and other sporting implements. The furni- 
ture was of the cumbrous workmanship of for- 
mer days, though some articles of modern con- 
venience had been added and the oaken floor 
had been carpeted, so that the whole presented 
an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide 
overwhelming fireplace to make way for a 



282 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

fire of wood, in the midst of which was an 
enormous log glowing and blazing, and send- 
ing forth a vast volume of light and heat : this, 
I understood, was the Yule-clog, which the 
squire was particular in having brought in and 
illuminated on a Christmas Eve, according 
to ancient custom.* 

It was really delightful to see the old squire 
seated in his hereditary elbow-chair by the 
hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and look- 
ing around him like the sun of a system, beam- 
ing warmth and gladness to every heart. Even 
the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as 

* The Yule-clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the 
root of a tree, brought into the house with great cere- 
mony on Christmas Eve, laid in the fire-place, and 
lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it 
lasted there was great drinking, singing, and telling of 
tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas 
candles ; but in the cottages the only light was from the 
ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule-clog was 
to burn all night ; if it went out. it was considered a 
sign of ill-luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs: 

Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boys. 

The Christmas Log to the firing ; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 

And drink to your hearts' desiring. 
The Yule-clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and 
kitchens in England, particularly in the north, and 
there are several superstitions connected with it among 
the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house 
while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is consid- 
ered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the Yule- 
clog is carefully put away to light the next year's Christ- 
mas fire. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 283 

he lazily shifted his position and yawned 
would look fondly up in his master's face, wag 
his tail against the floor, and stretch himself 
again to sleep, confident of kindness and pro- 
tection. There is an emanation from the heart 
in genuine hospitality which cannot be de- 
scribed, but is immediately felt and puts the 
stranger at once at his ease. I had not been 
seated many minutes by the comfortable 
hearth of the worthy old cavalier before I 
found myself as much at home as if I had been 
one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our 
arrival. It was served up in a spacious oaken 
chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, 
and around which were several family por- 
traits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides 
the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, 
called Christmas candles, wreathed with 
greens, were placed on a highly polished 
beaufet among the family plate. The table 
was abundantly spread with substantial fare ; 
but the squire made his supper of frumenty, a 
dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk with 
rich spices, being a standing dish in old times 
for Christmas Eve. I was happy to find my 
old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the 
feast; and, finding him to be perfectly ortho- 
dox, and that I need not be ashamed of my 
predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth 
wherewith we usually greet an old and very 
genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly pro- 
moted by the humors of an eccentric personage 



284 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with 
the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He 
was a tight brisk little man, with the air of an 
arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like 
the bill of a parrot; his face slightly pitted 
with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom 
on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He 
had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, 
with a drollery and lurking waggery of expres- 
sion that was irresistible. He was evidently 
the wit of the family, dealing very much in 
sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and 
making infinite merriment by harping upon 
old themes, which, unfortunately, my ignor- 
ance of the family chronicles did not permit 
me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great de- 
light during supper to keep a young girl next 
to him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, 
in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of 
her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was 
the idol of the younger part of the company, 
who laughed at everything he said or did and 
at every turn of his countenance. I could not 
wonder at it ; for he must have been a miracle 
of accomplishments in their eyes. He could 
imitate Punch and Judy; make an old woman 
of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt 
cork and pocket-handkerchief; and cut an 
orange into such a ludicrous caricature that 
the young folks were ready to die with laugh- 
ing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank 
Bracebridge. He was an old bachelor, of a 
small independent income, which by careful 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 285 

management was sufficient for all his wants. 
He revolved through the family system like a 
vagrant comet in its orbit, sometimes visiting 
one branch, and sometimes another quite re- 
mote, as is often the case with gentlemen of 
extensive connections and small fortunes in 
England. He had a chirping, buoyant dispo- 
sition, always enjoying the present moment; 
and his frequent change of scene and company 
prevented his acquiring those rusty, unaccom- 
modating habits with which old bachelors are 
so uncharitably charged. He was a complete 
family chronicle, being versed in the geneal- 
ogy, history, and intermarriages of the whole 
house of Bracebridge, which made him a 
great favorite with the old folks; he was a 
beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated 
spinsters, among whom he was habitually con- 
sidered rather a young fellow ; and he was mas- 
ter of the revels among the children, so that 
there was not a more popular being in the 
sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon 
Bracebridge. Of late years he had resided 
almost entirely with the squire, to whom he 
had become a factotum, and whom he particu- 
larly delighted by jumping with his humor in 
respect to old times and by having a scrap of 
an old song to suit every occasion. We had 
presently a specimen of his last-mentioned tal- 
ent, for no sooner was supper removed arid 
spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to 
the season introduced, than Master Simon was 
called on for a good old Christmas song. He 
bethought himself for a moment, and then, 



286 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

with a sparkle of the eye and a voice that was 
by no means bad, except that it ran occasion- 
ally into a falsetto like the notes of a split 
reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty : 

Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum. 
And call all our neighbors together; 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, 
and an old harper was summoned from the 
servant's hall, where he had been strumming" 
all the evening, and to all appearance com- 
forting himself with some of the squire's home- 
brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was 
told, of the establishment, and, though osten- 
sibly a resident of the village, was oftener to 
be found in the squire's kitchen than his own 
home, the old gentleman being fond of the 
sound of "harp in hall. " 

The dance, like most dances a^er supper, 
was a merry one : some of the older folks 
joined in it, and the squire himself figured 
down several couple with a partner with whom 
he affirmed he had danced at every Christ- 
mas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, 
who seemed to be a kind of connecting link 
between the old times and the new, and to be 
withal a little antiquated in the taste of his 
accomplishments, evidentl}^ piqued himself on 
his dancing, and was endeavoring to gain 
credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 287 

graces of the ancient school ; but he had un- 
luckily assorted himself with a little romping 
girl from boarding-school, who by her wild 
vivacity kept him continually on the stretch 
and defeated all his sober attempts at ele- 
gance; such are the ill-storted matches to 
which antique gentlemen are unfortunately 
prone. 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had 
led out one of his maiden aunts, on whom 
the rogue plaj^ed a thousand little knaveries 
with impunity: he was full of practical jokes, 
and his delight was to tease his aunts and 
cousins, yet, like all madcap youngsters, he 
was a universal favorite among the women. 
The most interesting couple in the dance was 
the young officer and a ward of the squire's, a 
beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From 
several shy glances which I had noticed in the 
course of the evening I suspected there was a 
little kindness growing up between them ; and 
indeed the young soldier was just the hero to 
captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slen- 
der, and handsome, and, like most young Brit- 
ish officers of late years, had picked up various 
small accomplishments on the Continent: he 
could talk French and Italian, draw land- 
scapes, sing very tolerably, dance divinely; 
but, above all, he had been wounded at 
Waterloo. What girl of seventeen, well read in 
poetry and romance, could resist such a mir- 
ror of chivalry and perfection? 

The moment the dance was over he caught 
up a guitar, and, lolling against the old marble 



288 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

fireplace in an attitude which I am half in- 
clined to suspect was studied, began the little 
French air of the Troubadour. The squire, 
however, exclaimed against having anything 
on Christmas Eve but good old English ; upon 
which the young miUvStrel, casting up his eye 
for a moment as if in an effort of memory, 
struck into another strain, and with a charm- 
ing air of gallantry gave Herrick's "Night- 
Piece to Julia:" 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee ; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bit thee 

But on thy way. 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber , 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light. 
Like tapers clear without numbei . 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
Thus, thus to come unto me. 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet. 
My soul I'll pour unto thee. 

The song might or might not have been in- 
tended in compliment to the fair Julia, for so I 
found his partner was called; she, however, 
was certainly unconscious of any such applica- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 289 

tion, for she never looked at the singer, but 
kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face 
was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, 
and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, 
but all that was doubtless caused by the exer- 
cise of the dance; indeed, so great was her in- 
difference that she amused herself with pluck- 
ing to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house 
flowers, and by the time the song was con- 
cluded the nose-gay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with 
the kind-hearted old custom of shaking hands. 
As I passed through the hall on my way to 
my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule- 
clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it 
not been the season when "no spirit dares stir 
abroad," I should have been half tempted to 
steal from my room at midnight and peep 
whether the fairies might not be at their revels 
about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the man- 
sion, the ponderous furniture of which might 
have been fabricated in the days of the giants. 
The room was paneled, with cornices of 
heavy carved work, in which flowers and gro- 
tesque faces were strangely intermingled, and 
a row of black-looking portraits stared mourn- 
fully at me from the walls. The bed was of 
rich though faded damask, with a lofty tester, 
and stood in a niche opposite a bow window. I 
had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music 
seemed to break forth in the air just below the 
window. I listened, and found it proceeded 
from a band which I concluded to be the Waits 

19 Sketch Book 



290 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

from some neig-hboring village. They went 
round the house, playing under the windows. 
I drew aside the curtains to hear them more 
distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the 
upper part of the casement ; partially lighting 
up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as 
they receded, became more soft and aerial, 
and seemed to accord with the quiet and moon- 
light. I listened and listened — they became 
more and more tender and remote, and, as 
they gradually died away, my head sunk upon 
the pillow and I fell asleep. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 291 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away. 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 



Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden? — come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

— Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning it seemed as 
if all the events of the preceding evening had 
been a dream, and nothing but the identity of 
the ancient chamber convinced me of their 
reality. While I lay musing on my pillow I 
heard the sound of little feet pattering outside 
of the door, and a whispering consultation. 
Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth 
an old Christmas carol, the burden of which 
was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was bom 
On Christmas Day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the 
door suddenly, and beheld one of the most 
beautiful little fairy groups that a painter could 
imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, 
the eldest not more than six, and lovely as 
seraphs. They were going the rounds of the 



292 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

house and singing at very chamber door, but 
my sudden appearance frightened them into 
mute bashfulness. They remained for a 
moment playing on their lips with their 
fingers, and now and then stealing a shy 
glance from under their eyebrows, until, as if 
by one impulse, they scampered away, and as 
they turned an angle of the gallery I heard 
them laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and 
happy feelings in this stronghold of old-fash- 
ioned hospitality. The window of my cham- 
ber looked out upon what in summer would 
have been a beautiful landscape. There was a 
sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot 
of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble 
clumps of trees and herds of deer. At a dis- 
tance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from 
the cottage chimneys hanging over it, and a 
church with its dark spire in strong relief 
against the clear cold sky. The house was sur- 
rounded with evergreens, according to the Eng- 
lish custom, which would have given almost an 
appearance of summer ; but the morning was 
extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the pre- 
ceding evening had been precipitated by the 
cold, and covered all the trees and every blade 
of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays 
of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect 
among the glittering foliage. A robin, perched 
upon the top of a mountain -ash that hung its 
clusters of red berries just before my window, 
was basking himself in the sunshine and pip- 
ing a fev/ querulous notes, and a peacock was 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 293 

displaying all the glories of his train and strut- 
ting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish 
grandee on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servant 
appeared to invite me to family prayers. He 
showed me the way to a small chapel in the 
old wing of the house, where I found the prin- 
cipal part of the family already assembled in a 
kind of gallery furnished with cushions, has- 
socks, ^ and large prayer-books; the servants 
were seated on benches below. The old 
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front 
of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as 
clerk and made the responses ; and I must do 
him the justice to say that he acquitted himself 
with great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas 
carol, which Mr. Bracebridge himself had con- 
structed from a poem of his favorite author, 
Herrick, and it had been adapted to an old 
church melody by Master Simon. As there 
were several good voices among the household, 
the effect was extremely pleasing, but I was 
particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart 
and sudden sally of grateful feeling with which 
the worthy squire delivered one stanza, his eye 
glistening and his voice rambling out of all 
the bounds of time and tune : 



" 'Tis Thou that crown 'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltless mirth, 
And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink ; 
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land: 



294 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 
Twice ten for one. " 

I afterwards understood that early morning 
service was read on every Sunday and saint's 
day throughout the year, either by Mr. Brace- 
bridge or by some member of the family. It 
was once almost universally the case at the 
seats of the nobility and gentry of England, 
and it is much to be regretted that the custom 
is falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer 
must be sensible of the order and serenity 
prevalent in those households where the occa- 
sional exercise of a beautiful form of worship 
in the morning gives, as it were, the keynote 
to every temper for the day and attunes every 
spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire 
denominated true old English fare. He 
indulged in some bitter lamentations over mod- 
ern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he cen- 
sured as among the causes of modern effem- 
inancy and weak nerves and the decline of old 
English heartiness; and, though he admitted 
them to his table to suit the palates of his 
guests, yet there was a brave display of cold 
meats, wine, and ale on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds 
with Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or 
Mr. Simon, as he was called by everybody but 
the squire. We were escorted by a number of 
gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers 
about the establishment, from the frisking 
spaniel to the steady old stag-hound, the last 
of which was of a race that had been in the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 295 

family time out of mind; they were all obedi- 
ent to a dog-whistle which hung- to Master 
Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of their 
gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon 
a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable 
look in the yellow sunshine than by pale moon- 
light ; and I could not but feel the force of 
the squire's idea that the formal terraces, 
heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew 
trees carried with them an air of proud aris- 
tocracy. There appeared to be an unusual 
number of peacocks about the place, and I was 
making some remarks upon what I termed a 
flock of them that were basking under a sunny 
wall, when I was gently corrected in my 
phraseology by Master Simon, who told me 
that according to the most ancient and ap- 
proved treatise on hunting I must say a muster 
of peacocks. "In the same way," added he, 
with a slight air of pedantry, "we say a flight 
of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd 
of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, 
or a building of rooks. ' * He went on to inform 
me that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, 
we ought to ascribe to this bird "both under- 
standing and glory ; for, being praised, he will 
presently set up his tail, chiefly against the 
sun, to the intent you may the better behold 
the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, 
when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide 
himself in corners till his tail come again as it 
was. ' ' 

I could not help smiling at this display of 



296 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

small erudition on so whimsical a subject; but 
I found that the peacocks were birds of some 
consequence at the hall, for Frank Bracebridge 
informed me that they were great favorites 
with his father, who was extremely careful to 
keep up the breed; partly because they 
belonged to chivalry, and were in great request 
at the stately banquets of the olden time, and 
partly because they had a pomp and mag- 
nificence about them highly becoming an old 
family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed 
to say, had an air of greater state and dignity 
than a peacock perched upon an antique stone 
balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having 
an appointment at the parish church with the 
village choristers, who were to perform some 
music of his selection. There was something 
extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of 
animal spirits of the little man; and I confess 
I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quo- 
tations from authors who certainly were not 
in the range of every- day reading. I mentioned 
this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, 
who told me with a smile that Master Simon's 
whole stock of erudition was confined to some 
half a dozen old authors, which the squire had 
put into his hands, and which he read over 
and over whenever he had a studious fit, as he 
sometimes had on a rainy day or a long winter 
evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's "Book of 
Husbandry," Markham's "Country Content- 
ments," the "Tretyse of Hunting," by Sir 
Thomas Cockayne, Knight, Isaac Walton's 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 297 

* ' Ang-ler, ' ' and two ar three more such ancient 
worthies of the pen were his standard author- 
ities ; and, like all men who knew but a fev/ 
books, he looked up to them with a kind of 
idolatry and quoted them on all occasions. As 
to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of 
old books in the squire's library, and adapted 
to tunes that were popular among the choice 
spirits of the last century. His practical appli- 
cation of scraps of literature, however, had 
caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of 
book-knowledge by all the grooms, hunstmen, 
and small sportsmen of the neighborhood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant 
toll of the village, bell, and I was told that the 
squire was a little particular in having his 
household at church on a Christmas morning, 
considering it a day of pouring out of thanks 
and rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed, — 

"At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 

And feast thy poor, neighbors, the great with the small. " 

"If you are disposed to go to church," said 
Frank Bracebridge, "I can promise you a spec- 
imen of my cousm Simon's musical achieve- 
ments. As the church is destitute of an organ, 
he has formed a band from the village ama- 
teurs, and established a musical club for their 
improvement; he has also sorted a choir, as he 
sorted my father's pack of hounds, according 
to the directions of Jervaise Markham in his 
'Country Contentments:' for the bass he has 
sought out of all the 'deep, solemn mouths, ' 
and for the tenor the 'loud-ringing mouths,' 

20 Sketch Book 



298 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

among the country bumpkins, and for 'sweet- 
mouths,' he has culled with curious taste 
among the prettiest lasses in the neighbor- 
hood ; though these last, he affirms, are the 
most difficult to keep in tune, your pretty 
female singer being exceedingly wayward and 
capricious, and very liable to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remark- 
ably fine and clear, the most of the family 
walked to the church, which was a very old 
building of gray stone, and stood near a village 
about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoin- 
ing it was a low snug parsonage which seemed 
coeval with the church. The front of it was 
perfectly matted with a yew tree that had been 
trained against its walls, through the dense 
foliage of which apertures had been formed 
to admit light into the small antique lattices. 
As we passed this sheltered nest the parson 
issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-condi- 
tioned pastor, such as is often found in a snug 
living in the vicinity of a rich patron's table, 
but I was disappointed. The parson was a 
little, meagre, black-looking man, with a 
grizzled wig that was too wide and stood off 
from each ear; so that his head seemed to 
have shrunk away within it, like a dried fil- 
bert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with 
great skirts and pockets that would have held 
the church Bible and prayer-book: and his 
small legs seemed still smaller from being 
planted in large shoes decorated with enor- 
mous buckles. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 299 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that 
the parson had been a chum of his father's at 
Oxford, and had received this living shortly 
after the latter had come to his estate. He 
was a complete black-letter hunter, and would 
scarcely read a work printed in the Roman 
character. The editions of Caxton and Wyn- 
kyn de Worde were his delight, and he was 
indefatigable in his researches after such old 
Eno^lish writers as had fallen into oblivion 
from their worthlessness. In deference, per- 
haps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge he had 
made diligetit investigations into the festive 
rites and holiday customs of former times, and 
had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had 
been a boon companion ; but it was merely 
with that plodding spirit with which men of 
a dust temperament follow up any track of 
study, merely because it is denominated learn- 
ing; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether 
it be the illustration of the wisdom or of the 
ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had 
pored over these old volumes so intensely that 
they seemed to have been reflected into his 
countenance; which, if the face be indeed an 
index of the mind, might be compared to a 
title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church-porch we found the 
parson rebuking the gray-headed sexton for 
having used mistletoe among the greens with 
which the church was decorated. It was, he 
observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having 
been used by the Druids in their mystic cere- 
monies; and, though it might be innocently 



300 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

employed in the festive ornamenting of halls 
and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the 
fathers of the church as unhallowed and totally 
unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was 
he on this point that the poor sexton was 
obliged to strip down a great part of the hum- 
ble trophies of his taste before the parson 
would consent to enter upon the service of the 
day. 

• The interior of the church was venerable, 
but simple; on the walls were several mural 
monuments of the Bracebridges, and just 
beside the altar was a tomb of ancient work- 
manship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior 
in armor with his legs crossed, a sign of his 
having been a crusader. I was told it was one 
of the family who had signalized himself in 
the Holy Land, and the same whose picture 
hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service Master Simon stood up in the 
pew and repeated the responses very audibly, 
evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion 
punctually observed by a gentleman of the old 
school and a man of old family connections. I 
observed too that he turned over the leaves of 
a folio prayer-book with something of a flourish ; 
possibly to show off an enoritious seal-ring 
which enriched one of his fingers and which 
had the look of a family relic. But he was 
evidently most solicitous about the musical 
'part of the service, keeping his eye fixed 
intently on the choir, and beating time wih 
much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 301 

presented a most whimsical grouping of heads 
piled one above the other, among which I par- 
ticularly noticed that of the village tailor, a 
pale fellow with a retreated forehead and chin, 
who played on the clarinet, and seemed to 
have blown his face to a point; and there 
was another, a short pursy man, stooping and 
laboring at a bass-viol, so as to show nothing 
but the top of a round bald head, like the egg 
of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty 
faces among the female singers, to which the 
keen air of a frosty morning had given a 
bright rosy tint; but the gentleman choristers 
had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona 
fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as sev- 
eral had to sing from the same book, there 
were clusterings of odd physiognomies not un- 
like those groups of cherubs we sometimes see 
on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were man- 
aged tolerably well, the vocal parts generally 
lagging a little behind the instrumental, and 
some loitering fiddler now and then making 
up for lost time by traveling over a passage 
with prodigious celerity and clearing more bars 
than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the 
death. But the great trial was an anthem that 
had been prepared and arranged by Master 
Simon, and on which he had founded great ex- 
pectation. Unluckily, there was a blunder at 
the very outset; the mi^sicians became flur- 
ried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; everything 
went on lamely and irregularly until they came 
to a chorus beginning, "Now, let us sing with 



802 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

one accord, ' ' which seemed to be a signal for 
parting company; all became discord and con- 
fusion ; each shifted for himself, and got to 
the end as well — or, rather, as soon — as he 
coTild, excepting one old chorister in a pair of 
horn spectacles bestriding and pinching a long 
sonorous nose, who happened to stand a little 
apart, and, being wrapped up in his own mel- 
ody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling 
his head, ogling his book, and winding all up 
by a nasal solo of at least three bars* dura- 
tion. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on 
the rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the 
propriety of observing it not merely as a day 
of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing, supporting 
the correctess of his opinions by the earliest 
usages of the Church, and enforcing them by 
the authorities of Theophilus of Csesarea, St. 
Cyprian, St» Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a 
cloud more of saints and fathers, from whom 
he made copious quotations. I was a little at 
a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty 
array of forces to maintain a point which no 
one present seemed inclined to dispute; but I 
soon found that the good man had a legion of 
ideal adversaries to contend with, having in 
the course of his researches on the subject of 
Christmas got completely embroiled in the 
sectarian controversies of the Revolution, 
when the Puritans made such a fierce assault 
upon the ceremonies of the Church, and poor 
old Christmas was driven out of the land by 



THE bKKlCH BOOK. 303 

proclamation of Parliament.* The worthy 
parson lived but with times past, and knew but 
little of the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the re- 
tirement of his antiquated little study, the 
pages of old times were to him as the gazettes 
of the day, while the era of the Revolution 
was mere modern history. He forgot that 
nearly two centuries had elapsed since the 
fiery persecution of poor mince-pie throughout 
the land ; when plum porridge was denounced 
as "mere popery," and roast beef as anti-chris- 
tian, and that Christmas had been brought in 
again triumphantly with the merry court of 
King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled 
into warmth with the ardor of his contest and 
the host of imaginary foes with whom he had 
to combat ; he had a stubborn conflict with old 
Prynne and two or three other forgotten cham- 
pions of the Roundheads on the subject of 

*From the "Flying Eagle," a small gazette, published 
December 24, 1652: "The House spent much time this 
day about the business of the Navy, for settling the 
affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with 
a terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, ground- 
ed upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16; i Cor. xv. 14, 
17; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon 
these Scriptures, John xx. i; Rev. i. 10; Psalms cxviii. 
24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11; Mark xv. 8; Psalms Ixxxiv. 10, in 
which Christmas is called Anti-Christ's masse, and those 
Masse-mongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In 
consequence of which Parliaments spent some time in 
consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, 
passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the 
following day, which was commonly called Christmas 
day." 



304 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Christmas festivity; and concluded b}^ urging* 
his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting 
manner, to stand to the traditional custom^s of 
their fathers and feast and make merry on this 
joyful anniversary of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended 
apparently with more immediate effects, for 
on leaving the church the congregation seemed 
one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit 
so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The 
elder folks gathered in knots in the church- 
yard, greeting and shaking hands, and the chil- 
dren ran about crying Ule! Ule! and repeating 
some uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who 
had joined us, informed me had been handed 
down from days of yore. The villagers doffed 
their hats to the squire as he passed, giving 
him the good wishes of the season with every 
appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were in- 
vited by him to the hall to take something to 
keep out the cold of the weather; and I heard 
blessings uttered by several of the poor, which 
convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoy- 
ments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgot- 
ten the true Christmas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed 
overflowed with generous and happy feelings. 
As we passed over a rising round which com- 
manded something of a prospect, the sounds of 
rustic merriment now and then reached our 
ears; the squire paused for a few raoments and 

*"Ule! Ule! 
Three puddings in a pule ; 
Crack nuts and cry ule!" 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 305 

looked around with an air of inexpressible be- 
nignity. The beauty of the day was of itself 
sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwith- 
standing the frostiness of the morning, the sun 
in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient 
power to melt away the thin covering of snow 
from every southern declivity, and to bring 
out the living green which adorns an English 
landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts of 
smiling verdure contrasted with the dazzling 
whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. 
Every sheltered bank on which the broad rays 
rested yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid 
water, glittering through the dripping grass, 
and sent up slight exhalations to contribute to 
the thin haze that hung just above the surface 
of the earth. There v/as something truly 
cheering in this triumph of warmth and ver- 
dure over the frosty thraldom of winter; it 
was, as the squire observed, an emblem of 
Christmas hospitalit}' breaking through the 
chills of ceremony and selfishness and thaw- 
ing every heart into a flow. He pointed with 
pleasure to the indications of good cheer reek- 
ing from the chimneys of the comfortable 
farm-houses and low thatched cottages. *'I 
love," said he, "to see this day well kept by 
rich and poor; it is a great thing to have one 
day in the year, at least, when you are sure of 
being welcome wherever you go, and of hav- 
ing, as it were, the world all thrown open to 
you; and I am almost disposed to join witli 
Poor Pvobin in his malediction on every churl- 
ish enemy to this honest festival: 

20 



306 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

" 'Those who at Christmas do repine, 
And would fain hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em.' " 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable 
decay of the games and amusements which 
were once prevalent at this season among the 
lower orders and countenanced by the higher, 
when the old halls of castles and manor-houses 
were thrown open at daylight; when the tables 
were covered with brawn and bee'^ and hum- 
ming ale; when the harp and the carol re- 
sounded all day long; and when rich and poor 
were alike welcome to enter and make merry.* 
*'Our old games and local customs," said he, 
*'had a great effect in making the peasant fond 
of his home, and the promotion of them by 
the gentry made him fond of his lord. They 
made the times merrier and kinder and better, 
and I can truly say, with one of our old poets, 

" 'I like them well; the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty." 

'*The nation," continued he, "is altered; we 
have almost lost our simple hearted peasantry. 

*'*An English gentleman, at the opening of the great 
day — i. e., on Christmas Day in the morning — had all 
his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. 
The strong beer was broached, and the black-jacks went 
plentifully about, with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good 
Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must 
be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must 
take the maiden (1. e., the cook) by the arms and run 
her round the market-place till she is shamed of her 
laziness." — Round about our Sea-Coal Fire. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 307 

They have broken asunder from the higher 
classes, and ^eem to think their interests are 
separate. They have become too knowing, 
and begin to read newspapers, listen to ale- 
house politicians, and talk of reform. I think 
one mode to keep them in good-humor in these 
hard times would be for the nobility and gen- 
try to pass more time on their estates, mingle 
more among the country-people, and set the 
merry old English games going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for miti- 
gating public discontent: and, indeed, he had 
once attempted to put his doctrine in practice, 
and a few years before he had kept open house 
during the, holidays in the old style. The 
country-people, however, did not understand 
how to play their parts in the scene of hospi- 
tality; many uncouth circumstances occurred; 
the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of 
the country, and more beggars drawn into the 
neighborhood in one week than the parish 
officers could get rid of in a year. Since then 
he had contented himself with inviting the 
decent part of the neighboring peasantry to 
call at the hall on Christmas Day, and with 
distributing beef, and bread, and ale among 
the poor, that they might make merry in their 
own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound 
of music was heard from a distance. A band 
of country lads, without coats, their shirt- 
sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats 
decorated with greens, and clubs in their 
hands, was seen advancing up the avenue, 



308 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

followed by a large number of villagers and 
peasantry. They stopped before the hall 
door, where the music struck up a peculiar 
air, and the lads performed a curious and in- 
tricate dance, advancing, retreating, and strik- 
ing their clubs together, keeping exact time 
to the music; while one, whimsically crowned 
with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted 
down his back, kept capering round the skirts 
of the dance and rattling a Christmas box with 
many antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with 
great interest and delight, and gave me a full 
account of its origin, which he traced to the 
times when the Romans held possession of 
the island, plainly proving that this was a lineal 
descendant of the sword dance of the ancients. 
"It was now," he said, ''nearly extinct, but he 
had accidentally met with traces of it in the 
neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ; 
though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be 
followed up by the rough cudgel play and 
broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded the whole 
party was entertained with brawn and beef 
and stout home-brewed. The squire himself 
mingled among the rustics, and was received 
with awkward demonstrations of deference and 
regard. It is true I perceived two or three of 
the younger peasants, as they were raising their 
tankards to their mouths, when the squire's 
back was turned making something of a grirn- 
ace, and giving each other the wink ; but thfe 
moment they caught my eye they pulled grave 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 309 

faces and were exceedingly demure., With 
Master Simon, however, they all seemed more 
at their ease. His varied occupations and 
amusements had made him well known 
throughout the neighborhood. He was a 
visitor at every farm-house and cottage, gos- 
siped with the farmers and their wives, 
romped with their daughters, and, like that 
type of a vagrant bachelor, the bumblebee, 
tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the 
country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way 
before good cheer and affability. There is 
something genuine and affectionate in the gay- 
ety of the lower orders when it is excited by 
the bounty and familiarity of those above 
them ; the warm glow of gratitude enters into 
their mirth, and a kind word or a small pleas- 
antry frankly uttered by a patron gladdens the 
heart of the dependant more than oil and 
wine. When the squire had retired the merri- 
ment increased, and there was much joking 
and laughter, particularly between Master 
Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed 
farmer who appeared to be the wit of the vil- 
lage ; for I observed all his companions to wait 
with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into 
a gratuitous laugh before they could well un- 
derstand them. 

The v/hole house indeed seemed abandoned 
to merriment : as I passed to my room to dress 
for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a 
small court, and, looking through a window 
that commanded it, I perceived a band of 



310 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

wandering musicians with pandean pipes and 
tambourine; a pretty coquettish housemaid 
was dancing- a jig with a smart country lad, 
while several of the other servants were look- 
ing on. In the midst of her sport the girl 
caught a glimpse of my face at the window, 
and, coloring up, ran off with a air of roguish 
affected confusion. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 311 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast ! 

Let every man be jolly. 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'l bury *t in a Christmas pye, 
A^nd evermore be merry. 

Withers, Juvenilia. 

I had finished my toilet, and was loitering 
with Frank Bracebridge in the library, when 
we heard a distant thwacking sound, which 
he informed me was a signal for the serving 
up of the dinner. The squire kept up old 
customs in kitchen as well as hall, and the roll- 
ing-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, 
summoned the servants to carry in the meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving-man, with dish in hand, 
March 'd boldly up, like our train-band. 

Presented and away.* 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, 
* Sir John Suckling. 



I 312 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

where the squire always held his Christmas 
banquet. A blazing crackling fire of logs had 
been heaped on to warm the spacious apart- 
ment, and the flame went sparkling and 
Avreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. 
The great picture of the crusader and his 
white horse had been profusely decorated with 
g-reens for the occasion, and holly and ivy had 
likewise been wreathed round the helmet and 
weapons on the opposite wall, which I un- 
derstood were the arms of the same warrior. I 
must own, by the by, I had strong doubts 
about the authenticity of the painting and 
armor as having belonged to the crusader, 
they certainly having the stamp of more recent 
days; but I was told that the painting had been 
so considered time out of mind ; and that as 
to the armor, it had been found in a lumber- 
room and elevated to its present situation by 
the squire, who at once determined it to be 
the armor of the family hero; and as he was 
absolute authority on all such subjects in his 
own household, the matter had passed into 
current acceptation. A side-board was set out 
just under this chivalric trophy, on which was 
a display of plate that might have vied (at 
least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of 
the vessels of the temple: *' flagons, cans, 
cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers," 
the gorgeous utensils of good companionship 
that had gradually accumulated through many 
generations of jovial housekeepers. Before 
these stood the two Yule candles, beaming like 
two stars of the first magnitude ; other lights 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 313 

were distributed in branches, and the whole 
array glittered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene 
with the sound of minstrelsy, the old harper 
being seated on a stool beside the fireplace and 
twanging his instrument with a vast deal 
more power than melody. Never did Christ- 
mas board display a more goodly and gracious 
assemblage of countenances; those who were 
not handsome were at least happy, and happi- 
ness is a rare improver of your hard-favored 
visage. I always consider an old English 
family as well worth studying as a collection 
of Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's 
prints. There is much antiquarian lore to be 
acquired, much knowledge of the physiogno- 
mies of former times. Perhaps it may be from 
having continually before their eyes those rows 
of old family portraits, with which the man- 
sions of this country are stocked ; certain it is 
that the quaint features of antiquity are often 
most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient 
lines, and I have traced an old family nose 
through a whole picture-gallery, legitimately 
handed down from generation to generation 
almost from the time of the Conquest. Some- 
thing of the kind was to be observed in the 
worthy company around me. Many of their 
faces had evidently originated in a Gothic age, 
and been merely copied by succeeding genera- 
tions; and there was one little girl in particu- 
lar, of staid demeanor, with a high Roman 
nose and an antique vinegar aspect, who was 
a great favorite of the squire's, being, as he 



314 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very 
counterpart of one of his ancestors who figured 
in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short 
familiar one, such as is commonly addressed 
to the Deity in these unceremonious days, but 
a long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient 
school. There was now a pause, as if some- 
thing was expected, when suddenly the butler 
entered the hall with some degree of bustle: 
he was attended by a servant on each side 
with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish 
on which was an enormous pig's head deco- 
rated with rosemary, with a lemon in its 
mouth, which was placed with great formality 
at the head of the table. The moment this 
pageant made its appearance the harper struck 
up a flourish; at the conclusion of which the 
young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the 
squire, gave, with an air of the most comic 
gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which 
was as follows: 

Caput apri defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray yon all synge merrily 

Qui estis in convivio. 

Though prepared to witness many of these 
little eccentricities, from being apprised of the 
peculiar hobby of mine host, yet I confess the 
parade with which so odd a dish was intro- 
duced somewhat perplexed me, until I 
gathered from the conversation of the squire 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 315 

and the parson that it was meant to represent 
the bringing in of the boar's head, a dish for- 
merly served up with much ceremony and the 
sound of minstrelsy and song at great tables 
on Christmas Day. "I like the old custom," 
said the squire, "not merely because it is 
stately and pleasing in itself, but because it 
was observed at the college at Oxford at which 
I was educated. When I hear the old song 
chanted it brings to mind the time when I was 
young and gamesome, and the noble old col- 
lege hall, and my fellow-students loitering 
about in their black gowns; many of whom, 
poor lads ! are now in their graves. ' * 

The parson, however, whose mind was not 
haunted by such associations, and who was 
always more taken up with the text than the 
sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version 
of the carol, which he affirmed was different 
from that sung at college. He went on, with 
the dry perseverance of a commentator, to 
give the college reading, accompanied by sun- 
dry annotations, addressing himself at first to 
the company at large ; but, finding their atten- 
tion gradually diverted to other talk and other 
objects, he lowered his tone as his number of 
auditors diminished, until he concluded his 
remarks in an under voice to a fat-headed old 
gentleman next him who was silently engaged 
in the discussion of a huge plateful of turkey.* 

* The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on 
Christmas Day is still observed in the hall of Queen's 
College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with a 
copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be accept- 



316 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

The table was literally loaded with good 
cheer, and presented an epitome of country- 
abundance in this season of overflowing lar- 
ders. A distinguished post was allotted to 
''ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it, 
being, as he added, "the standard of old Eng- 
lish hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, 
and full of expectation." There were several 
dishes quaintly decorated, and which had 
evidently something traditional in their em- 
bellishments, but about which, as I did not like 
to appear over-curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie mag- 
nificently decorated with peacock's feathers, in 
imitation of the tail of that bird, which over- 
shadowed a considerable tract of the table. 
This, the squire confessed with some little hes- 

able to such of my readers as are curious in these grave 
and learned matters, I give it entire : 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 

Quot estis in convivio 

Caput apri defero. 

Reddens laudes domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, etc., etc., etc. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 317 

itation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock 
pie was certainly the most authentical; but 
there had been such a mortality among the 
peacocks this season that he could not prevail 
upon himself to have one killed.* 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser 
readers, who may not have that foolish fond- 
ness for odd and obsolete things to which I am 
a little given, were I to mention the other 
makeshifts of this worthy old humorist, by 
which he was endeavoring to follow up, though 
at humble distance, the quaint customs of 
antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the 
respect shown to his whims by his children and 
relatives; who, indeed, entered readily into the 
full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed 
in their parts, having doubtless been present 

*The peacock was anciently in great demand for 
stately entertainments. Sometimes it was made into 
a pie, at one end of which the head appeared above the 
crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at the 
other end the tail was dispayed. Such pies were served 
up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights- 
errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous 
enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Jus- 
ice Shallow, "by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christ- 
mas feast; and Massinger in his "City Madam," gives 
some idea of the extravagance with which this, as well 
as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of 
the olden times: 

Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 

Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' 

tongues ; 
Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris : the carcases 

of three fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce 

for a single peacock ! 



318 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the 
air of profound gravity with which the butler 
and other servants executed the duties assigned 
them, however eccentric. They had an old- 
fashioned look, having, for the most part, been 
brought up in the household and grown into 
keeping with the antiquated mansion and the 
humors of its lord, and most probably looked 
upon all his whimsical regulations as the estab- ' 
lished laws of honorable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed the butler 
brought in a huge silver vessel of rare and cur- 
ious workmanship, which he placed before the 
squire. Its appearance was hailed with 
acclamation, being the Wassail Bowl, so 
renowned in Christmas festivity. The con- 
tents had been prepared by the squire himself; 
for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture of 
which he particularly prided himself, alleging 
that it was too abstruse and complex for the 
comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was 
a potation, indeed, that might well make the 
heart of a toper leap within him, being com- 
posed of the richest and raciest wines, highly 
spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bob- 
bing about the surface.* 

The old gentleman's whole countenance 
beamed with a serene look of indwelling delight 
as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised 

*The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale 
instead of wine, with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and 
roasted crabs ; in this way the nut-brown beverage is 
still prepared in some old families and round the 
hearths of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 319 

it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry 
Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming 
round the board, for every one to follow his 
example, according to the primitive style, pro- 
nouncing it "the ancient fountain of good feel- 
ing, where all hearts met together."* 

There was much laughing and rallying as 
the honest emblem of Christmas joviality 
circulated and was kissed rather coyly by the 
ladies. When it reached Master Simon, he 
raised it in both hands, and with the air of a 
boon companion struck up an old Wassail 
Chanson : 

The brown bowle. 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round-about-a, 
Fill 
Still, 

Let the world say what it will. 

And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne. 

As thou dost freely quaff -a, 

called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his 
"Twelfth Night:" 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool ; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, 

With store of ale too. 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger. 

*"The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave 
place to each having his cup. When the steward came 
to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three times 
Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chap- 
lain) was to answer with a song." — Archseologia. 



320 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a,* 

Much of the conversation during dinner 
turned upon family topics, to which I was a 
stranger. There was, however, a great deal 
of rallying of Master Simon about some gay 
widow with whom he was accused of having a 
flirtation. This attack was commenced by the 
ladies, but it was continued throughout the 
dinner by the flat-headed old gentleman next 
the parson with the persevering assiduity of a 
slow hound, being one of those long-winded 
jokers, who, though rather dull at starting 
game, are unrivaled for their talents in hunting 
it down. At every pause in the general con- 
versation he renewed his bantering in pretty 
much the same terms, winking hard at me 
with both eyes whenever he gave Master Simon 
what he considered a home-thrust. The latter, 
indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the 
subject, as old bachelors are apt to be, and he 
took occasion to inform me, m an undertone, 
that the lady in question was a prodigiously 
fine woman and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of 
innocent hilarity, and, though the old hall 
may have resounded in its time with many a 
scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt 
whether it ever witnessed more honest and 
genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one 

*From Poor Robin s Almanack. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 321 

benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around 
him! and how truly is a kind heart a fountain 
of gladness, making everything in its vicinity 
to freshen into smiles ! The joyous disposition 
of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious ; 
he was happy himself, and disposed to make 
all the world happy, and the little eccentric- 
ities of his humor did but season, in a manner, 
the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversa- 
tion, as usual, became still more animated; 
many good things were broached which had 
been thought of during dinner, but which 
would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and, 
though I cannot positively affirm that there 
was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly 
heard many contests of rare wit produce much 
less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, 
pungent ingredient, and much too acid for 
some stomachs; but honest good-humor is the 
oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is 
no jovial companionship equal to that where 
the jokes are rather small and the laughter 
abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early 
college pranks and adventures, in some of 
which the parson had been a sharer, though in 
looking at the latter it required some effort of 
imagination to figure such a little dark anat- 
omy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap 
gambol. Indeed, the two college chums pre- 
sented pictures of what men may be made by 
their different lots in life. The squire had 
left the university to live lustily on his 

21 Sketch Book 



322 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

paternal domains in the vigorous enjoyment of 
prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on 
to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor 
parson, on the contrary, had dried and withered 
away among dusty tomes in the silence and 
shadows of his study. Still, there seemed to 
be a spark of almost extinguished fire feebly 
glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and as 
the squire hinted at a sly story of the parson 
and a pretty milkmaid whom they once met on 
the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made 
an "alphabet of faces," which, as far as I 
could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe 
was indicative of laughter; indeed, I have 
rarely met with an old gentleman that took 
absolute offence at the imputed gallantries of 
his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast 
gaining on the dry land of sober judgment. 
The company grew merrier and louder as their 
jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as 
chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with 
dew; his old songs grew of a warmer complex- 
ion, and he began to talk maudlin about the 
widow. He even gave a long song about the 
wooing of a widow which he informed me he 
had gathered from an excellent black-letter 
work entitled "Cupid's Solicitor for Love," con- 
taining store of good advice fcr bachelors, and 
which he promised to lend me ; the first verse 
was to this effect ; 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 323 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentle- 
man, who made several attempts to tell a rather 
broad story out of Joe Miller that was pat to 
the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, 
everybody recollecting the latter part except- 
ing himself. The parson, too, began to show 
the effects of good cheer, having gradually 
settled down into a doze and his wig sitting 
most suspiciously on one side. Just at this 
juncture we were summoned to the drawing- 
room, and I suspect, at the private instigation 
of mine host, whose joviality seemed always 
tempered with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner-table was removed the hall 
was given up to the younger members of the 
family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy 
mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made 
its old walls ring with their merriment as they 
played at romping games. I delight in wit- 
nessing the gambols of children, and partic- 
ularly at this happy holiday season, and 
could not help stealing out of the drawing- 
room one hearing one of their peals of laughter. 
I found them at the game of blindman's-buff. 
Master Simon, who was the leader of their 
revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfill 
the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord 
of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the 
hall. The little beings were as busy about 

*At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, where- 
soever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule or mayster of 
mene disportes, and the like had ye in the house of 
every nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were he 
spirituall or temporall. — Stow. 



324 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

him as the mock fairies about Falstaff, pinch- 
ing him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and 
tickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyed 
girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all 
in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a 
glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a 
complete picture of a romp, was the chief 
tormentor ; and, from the slyness with which 
Master Simon avoided the smaller game and 
hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and 
obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I 
suspected the rogue of being not a whit more 
blinded than was convenient. 

AVhen I returned to the drawing-room I 
found the company seated round the fire listen- 
ing to the parson, who was deeply ensconced 
in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some 
cunning artificer of yore, which had been 
brought from the library for his particular 
accommodation. From this venerable piece 
of furniture, with which his shadowy figure 
and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, 
he was dealing out strange accounts of the pop- 
ular superstitions and legends of the surround- 
ing country, with which he had become 
acquainted in the course of his antiquarian 
researches. I am half inclined to think that 
the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinc- 
tured with superstition, as men are very apt to 
be who live a recluse and studious life in a 
sequestered part of the country and pore over 
black-letter tracts, so often filled w4th the 
marvelous and supernatural. He gave ns 
several anecdotes of the fancies of the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 325 

neighboring peasantry concerning the effigy of 
the crusader which lay on the tomb by the 
church altar. As it was the only monument of 
the kind in that part of the country, it had 
always been regarded with feelings of supersti- 
tion by the good wives of the village. It was 
said to get up from the tomb and walk the 
rounds of the churchyard in stormy nights, par- 
ticularly when it thundered; and one old 
woman, whose cottage bordered on the church- 
yard, had seen it through the windows of the 
church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing" 
up and down the aisles. It was the belief that 
some wrong had been left unredressed by the 
deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept 
the spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness. 
Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the 
tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and 
there was a story current of a sexton in old 
times who endeavored to break his way to the 
coffin at night, but just as he reached it received 
a violent blow from the marble hand of the 
effigy, which stretched him senseless on the 
pavement. These tales were often laughed at 
by some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet 
when night came on there were many of the 
stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing 
alone in the footpath that led across the church- 
yard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed 
the crusader appeared to be the favorite hero 
of ghost-stories throughout the vicinity. His 
picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought 
by the servants to have something supernatural 



328 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

about it ; for they remarked that in whatever 
part of the hall you went the eyes of the warrior 
were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, 
too, at the lodge, who had been born and 
brought up in the family, and was a great gos- 
sip among the maid-servants, affirmed that in 
her young days she had often heard say that on 
Midsummer Eve, when it was well known all 
kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become 
visible and walk aboard, the crusader used to 
mount his horse, come down from his picture, 
ride about the house, down the avenue, and so 
to the church to visit the tomb ; on which occa- 
sion the church-door most civilly swung open 
of itself ; not that he needed it, for he rode 
through closed gates, and even stone walls, and 
had been seen by one of the dairymaids to pass 
between two bars of the great park gate, mak- 
ing himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All thege superstitions I found had been very 
much countenanced by the squire, who, though 
not superstitious himself, was very fond of see- 
ing others so. He listened to every goblin tale 
of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, 
and held the porter's wife in high favor on 
account of her talent for the marvelous. He 
was himself a great reader of old legends and 
romances, and often lamented that he could 
not believe in them ; for a superstitious person, 
he thought, must live in a kind of fairy-land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's 
stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a 
burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, in 
which were mingled something like the clang 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 32? 

of rude minstrelsy with the uproar of many 
small voices and girlish laughter. The door 
suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping 
into the room that might almost have been mis- 
taken for the breaking up of the court of Faery. 
That indefatigable spirit, Master Simon, in 
the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of 
misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas 
mummery or masking; and having called in to 
his assistance the Oxonian and the young 
officer, who were equally ripe for anything that 
should occasion romping and merriment, they 
had carried it into instant effect. The old 
house-keeper had been consulted; the antique 
clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged and 
made to yield up the relics of finery that had 
not seen the light for several generations ; the 
younger part of the company had been priv« 
ately convened from the parlor and hall, and 
the whole had been bedizened out into a bur- 
lesque imitation of an antique mask.* 

Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient 
Christmas," quaintly appareled in a ruff, a 
short cloak, which had very much the aspect 
of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, 
and a hat that might have served for a village 
steeple, and must indubitably have figured in 
the days of the Covenanters. From under 

*Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at 
Christmas in old times, and the wardrobes at halls and 
manor-houses were often laid under contribution ta 
furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly 
suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from 
Ben Jonson's "Masque of Christmas." 



328 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with 
a frost-bitten bloom that seemed the very- 
trophy of a December blast. He was accom- 
panied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up, as 
*'Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable magnifi- 
cence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, 
peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. The 
young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a 
sporting dress of Kendal green and a foraging 
cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testi- 
mony to deep research, and there was an evi- 
dent eye to the picturesque, natural to a young 
gallant in the presence of his mistress. The 
fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic 
dress as * ' Maid Marian. * ' The rest of the train 
had been metamorphosed in various ways ; the 
girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient 
belles of the Bracebridge line, and the strip- 
lings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely 
clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full- 
bottomed wigs, to represent the character of 
Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other wcMrthies 
celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole 
was under the control of the Oxonian in the 
appropriate character of Misrule; and I 
observed that he exercised rather a mischiev- 
ous sway with his wand over the smaller per- 
sonages of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew with beat 
of drum, according to ancient custom, was the 
consummation of uproar and merriment. 
Master Simon covered himself with glory by 
the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christ- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 329 

mas, he walked a minuet with the peerless 
though giggling Dame Mince Pie. It was fol- 
lowed by a dance of all the characters, which 
from its medley of costumes seemed as 
though the old family portraits had skipped 
down from their frames to join in the sport. 
Different centuries were figuring at cross 
hands and right and left ; the Dark Ages were 
cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and the days 
of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the mid- 
dle through a line of succeeding generations. 
The worthy squire contemplated these fan- 
tastic sports and this resurrection of his old 
wardrobe with the simple relish of childish de- 
light. He stood chuckling and rubbing his 
hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson 
said, notwithstanding that the latter was dis- 
coursing most authentically on the ancient and 
stately dance of the Pavon, or peacock, from 
which he conceived the minuet to be derived.* 
For my part, I was in a continual excite- 
ment from the varied scenes of whim and 
innocent gayety passing before me. It was 
inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm- 
hearted hospitality breaking out from among 
the chills and glooms of winter, and old age 
throwing off his apathy and catching once 

* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the 
Pavon, from "pavo," a peacock, says, "It is a grave 
and majestic dance; the method of dancing it anciently 
was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by 
those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in 
their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long 
trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that 
of a peacock." — History of Music. 

22 Sketch Book 



330 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I 
felt also an interest in the scene from the con- 
sideration that these fleeting- customs were 
posting fast into oblivion, and that this was 
perhaps the only family in England in which 
the whole of them was still punctiliously ob- 
served. There was a quaintness, too, mingled 
with all this revelry that gave it a peculiar 
zest: it was suited to the time and place; and 
as the old manor-house almost reeled with 
mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the 
joviality of long departed years.* 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols; it 
is time for me to pause in this garrulity. Me- 
thinks I hear the questions asked by my 
graver readers, '*To what purpose is all this? 
how is the world to be made wiser by this 
talk?" Alas! is there not wisdom enough ex- 
tant for the instruction of the world? And if 
not, are there not thousands of abler pens lab- 
oring for its improvement? It is so much 
pleasanter to please than to instruct — to play 
the companion rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I 
could throw into the mass of knowledge? or 
how am I sure that my sagest deductions may 

* At the time of the first publication of this paper the 
picture of an old-fashioned Christmas m the country 
was pronounced by some as out of date. The author 
had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all 
the customs above described, existing in unexpected 
vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where 
he passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find 
some notice of them in the author's account of his 
sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 331 

be safe guides for the opinions of others? But 
in writing to amuse, if I fail the only evil is 
in my own disappointment. If, however, I 
can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, 
rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care or 
beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sor- 
row ; if I can now and then penetrate through 
the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a 
benevolent view of human nature, and make 
my reader more in good-humor with his fel- 
low-beings and himself — surely, surely, I shall 
not then have written entirely in vain. 



332 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 

^-I do walk 

Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthom. 
Stealing to set the town o' fire; i* th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 
Or Robin Goodfellow. 

Fletcher. 

I am somewhat of an antiquity-hunter, and 
am fond of exploring London in quest of the 
relics of old times. These are principally to 
be found in the depths of the city, swallowed 
up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick 
and mortar, but deriving poetical and roman- 
tic interest from the commonplace, prosaic 
world around them. I was struck with an 
instance of the kind in the course of a r,ecent 
summer ramble into the city; for the city is 
only to be explored to advantage in sum- 
mer-time, when free from the smoke and fog 
and rain and mud of winter. I had been 
buffeting for some time against the current of 
population setting through Fleet Street. The 
warm weather had unstrung my nerves and 
made me sensitive to every jar and jostle and 
discordant sound. The flesh was weary, the 
spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor 
with the bustling busy throng through which I 
had to struggle, when in a fit of desperation 
1 tore my way through the crowd, plunged 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 333 

into a by-lane, and, after passing through sev- 
eral obscure nooks and angles, emerged into a 
quaint and quiet court with a grassplot in the 
centre overhung by ^Ims, and kept perpetu- 
ally fresh and green by a fountain with its 
sparkling jet of water. A student with book 
in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly 
reading, partly meditating on the movements 
of two or three trim nursery-maids with their 
infant charges. 

I was like an Arab who had suddenly come 
upon an oasis amid the panting sterility of the 
desert. By degrees the quiet and coolness of 
the place soothed my nerves and refreshed my 
spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard 
by, to a very ancient chapel with a low- 
browed Saxon portal of massive and rich 
architecture. The interior was circular and 
lofty and lighted from above. Around were 
monumental tombs of ancient date on which 
were extended the marble effigies of warriors in 
armor. Some had the hands devoutly crossed 
upon the breast; others grasped the pommel 
of the sword, menacing hostility even in the 
tomb, while the crossed legs of several indi- 
cated soldiers of the Faith who had been on 
crusades to the Holy Land. 

1 was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights 
Templars, strangely situated in the very cen- 
tre of sordid traffic ; and I do not know a more 
impressive lesson for the man of the world 
than thus suddenly to turn aside from the 
highway of busy money-seeking life, and sit 



S34 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

down among these shadowy sepulchres, where 
all is twilight, dust, and forgetful ness. 

In a subsequent tour of observaton I encoun- 
tered another of these relics of a "foregone 
world" locked up in the heart of the city. I 
had been wandering for some time through 
dull monotonous streets, destitute of anything 
to strike the eye or excite the imagination, 
when I beheld before me a Gothic gateway of 
mouldering antiquity. It opened into a spa- 
cious quadrangle forming the courtyard of a 
stately Gothic pile, the portal of which stood 
invitingly open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and, as I 
was antiquity-hunting, I ventured in, though 
with dubious steps. Meeting no one either to 
oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued on 
until I found myself in a great hall with a 
lofty arched roof and oaken gallery, all of 
Gothic architecture. At one end of the hall 
was an enormous fireplace, with wooden set- 
tles on each side; at the other end was a 
raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, 
above which was the portrait of a man in 
antique garb with a long robe, a ruff, and a 
venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of mo- 
nastic quiet and seclusion, and what gave it a 
mysterious charm was, that I had not met 
with a human being since I had passed the 
threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated my- 
self in a recess of a large bow window, which 
admitted a broad flood of yellow sunshine, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 335 

checkered here and there by tints from panes 
of colored glass, while an open casement let 
in the soft summer air. Here, leaning my 
head on my hand and my arm on an old oaken 
table, I indulged in a sort of reverie about 
what might have been the ancient uses of 
this edifice. It had evidently been of monas- 
tic origin; perhaps one of those collegiate 
establishments built of yore for the promotion 
of learning, where the patient monk, in the 
ample solitude of the cloister, added page to 
page and volume to volume, emulating in the 
productions of his brain the magnitude of the 
pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood a small 
paneled door in an arch at the upper end of 
the hall was opened, and a number of gray- 
headed old men, clad in long black cloaks, 
came forth one by one, proceeding in that 
manner through the hall, without uttering a 
word, each turning a pale face on me as he 
passed, and disappearing through a door at the 
lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their appear- 
ance; their black cloaks and antiquated air 
comported with the style of this most vener- 
able and mysterious pile. It was as if the 
ghosts of the departed years, about which I 
had been musing, were passing in review be- 
fore me. Pleasing myself with such fancies, 
I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore 
what I pictured to myself a realm of shadows 
existing in the very centre of substantial reali- 
ties. 



83G THE SKETCH BOOK. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of 
interior courts and corridors and dilapidated 
cloisters, for the main edifice had many addi- 
tions and dependencies, built at various times 
and in various styles. In one open space a 
number of boys, who evidently belonged to 
the establishment, were at their sports, but 
everywhere I observed those mysterious old 
gray men in black mantles, sometimes saun- 
tering alone, sometimes conversing in groups ; 
they appeared to be the pervading genii of the 
place. I now called to mind what I had read 
of certain colleges in old times, where judicial 
astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other 
forbidden and magical sciences were taught. 
Was this an establishment of the kind, and 
were these black-cloaked old men really pro- 
fessors of the black art? 

These surmises were passing through my 
mind as my eye glanced into a chamber hung 
round with all kinds of strange and uncouth ob- 
jects — implements of savage warfare, strange 
idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled serpents 
and monsters decorated the mantelpiece ; while 
on the high tester of an old-fashioned bedstead 
grinned a human skull, flanked on each side 
b}^ a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this 
mystic chamber, which seemed a fitting labora- 
tory for a necromancer, when I was startled at 
beholding a human countenance staring at me 
from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, 
shriveled old man with thin cheeks, bright 
eyes, and gray, wiry, projecting eyebrows. I 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 337 

at first doubted whether it were not a mummy 
curiously preserved, but it moved, and I saw 
that it was alive. It was another of these black- 
cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint 
physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hide- 
ous and sinister objects by which he was sur- 
rounded, I began to persuade myself that I had 
come upon the arch-mago who ruled over this 
magical fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose 
and invited me to enter. I obeyed with singu- 
lar hardihood, for how did I know whether a 
wave of his wand might not metamorphose me 
into some strange monster or conjure me into 
one of the bottles on his mantelpiece? He 
proved, however, to be anything but a conjurer, 
and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the 
magic and mystery with which I had enveloped 
this antiquated pile and its no less antiquated 
inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the 
centre of an ancient asylum for superannuated 
tradesmen and decayed householders, with 
which was connected a school for a limited 
number of boys. It was founded upwards of 
two centuries since on an old monastic estab- 
lishment, and retained somewhat of the con- 
ventual air and character. The shadowy line 
of old men in black mantles who had passed 
before me in the hall, and whom I had elevated 
into magi, turned out to be the pensioners 
returning from morning service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities 
whom I had made the arch magician, had been 



338 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

for six years a resident of the place, and had 
decorated this final resting-place of his old age 
with relics and rarities picked up in the course 
of his life. According to his own account, he 
had been somewhat of a traveler, having been 
once in France, and very near making a visit to 
Holland. He regretted not having visited the 
latter country, "as then he mJght have said he 
had been there." He was evidently a traveler 
of the simple kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions, keep- 
ing aloaf, as I found, from the ordinary run of 
pensioners. His chief associates were a blind 
man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both which 
languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant, 
and a broken-down gentleman who had run 
through a fortune of forty thousand pounds, 
left him by his father, and ten thousand 
pounds, the marriage portion of his wife. 
Little Hallum seemed to consider it an indubi- 
table sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty 
spirit to be able to squander such enormous 
sums. 

P. S. — The picturesque remnant of old times 
into which I have thus beguiled the reader is 
what is called the Charter House, originally the 
Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on the 
remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas 
Sutton, being one of those noble charities set on 
foot by individual munificence, and kept up 
with the quaintness and sanctity of ancient 
times amidst the modern changes and innova- 
tions of London. Here eighty broken-down 
men, who have seen better days, are provided 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 339 

in their old age with food, clothing, fuel, and a 
yearly allowance for private expenses. They 
dine together, as did the monks of old, in the 
hall which had been the refectory of the original 
convent. Attached to the establishment is a 
school for forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the 
subject, speaking of the obligations of the gray- 
headed pensioners, says, "They are not to inter- 
meddle with any business touching the affairs 
of the hospital, but to attend only to the ser- 
vice of God, and take thankfully what is pro- 
vided for them, without muttering, murmuring, 
or grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, 
colored boots, spurs, or colored shoes, feathers 
in their hats, or any ruffian-like or tmseemly 
apparel, but such as becomes hospital-men to 
wear." "And in truth," adds Stow, "happy 
are they that are so taken from the cares and 
sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a 
place as these old men are ; having nothing to 
care for but the good of their souls, to serve 
God, and to live in brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been in- 
terested by the preceding sketch, taken down 
from my own observation, and who may wish 
to know a little more about the mysteries of 
London, I subjoin a modicum of local history 
put into my hands by an odd-looking old 
gentleman, in a small brown wig and a snuff- 
colored coat, with whom I became acquainted 
shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I 
confess I was a little dubious at first whether 



340 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

it was not one of those apocryphal tales often 
passed off upon inquiring travelers like 
myself, and which have brought our general 
character for veracity into such unmerited 
reproach. On making proper inquiries, how- 
ever, I have received the most satisfactory 
assurances of the author's probity, and indeed 
have been told that he is actually engaged in 
a full and particular account of the very inter- 
esting region in which he resides, of which the 
following may be considered merely as a fore- 
taste. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 341 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 

What I write is most true .... I have a whole booke 
of cases lying by me, which if I should sette foorth, 
some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow Bell) 
would be out of charity with me. — Nash. 

In the centre of the great City of London 
lies a small neighborhood, consisting of a clus- 
ter of narrow streets and courts, of very ven- 
erable and debilitated houses, which goes by 
the name of Little Britain. Christ Church 
School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound 
it on the west ; Smithfield and Long Lane on 
the north ; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of 
the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the 
city; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and- 
Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane 
and the regions of Newgate. Over this little 
territory, thus bounded and designated, the 
great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the 
intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen 
Corner, and Ave-Maria Lane, looks down with 
an air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from 
having been, in ancient times, the residence of 
the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, 
however, rank and fashion rolled off to the 
west, and trade, creeping on at their heels, 
took possession of their deserted abodes. For • 



342 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

some time Little Britain became the great 
mart of learning, and was peopled by the 
busy and prolific race of book-sellers: these 
also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating 
beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, 
settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's 
Churchyard, where they continue to increase 
and multiply even at the present day. 

But, though thus fallen into decline, Little 
Britain still bears traces of its former splendor. 
There are several houses ready to tumble 
down, the fronts of which are magnificently 
enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous 
faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes, and 
fruits and flowers which it would perplex a 
naturalist to classify. There are also, in Ald- 
ergate Street, certain remains of what were 
once spacious and lordly family mansions, but 
which have in latter days been subdivided into 
several tenements. Here may often be found 
the family of a petty tradesman, with its 
trumpery furniture, burrowing among the 
relics of antiquated finery in great rambling 
time-stained apartments with fretted ceilings, 
gilded cornices, and enormous marble fire- 
places. The lanes and courts also contain many 
smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, 
like your small ancient gentry, sturdily main- 
taining their claims to equal antiquity. These 
have their gable ends to the street, great bow 
windows with diamond panes set in lead, gro- 
tesque carvings, and low arched doorways. * 

* It IS evident that the author of this interesting com- 
munication has included, in his general title of Little 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 343 

In this most venerable and sheltered little 
nest have I passed several quiet years of exist- 
ence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of 
one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My 
sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, 
with small panels and set off with a miscellane- 
ous array of furniture. I have a particular 
respect for three or four high-backed, claw- 
footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, 
which bear the marks of having seen better 
days, and have doubtless figured in some of 
the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem 
to me to keep together and to look down with 
sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bot- 
tomed neighbors, as I have seen decayed gentry 
carry a high head among the plebeian society 
with which they were reduced to associate. 
The whole front of my sitting-room is taken 
up with a bow window, on the panes of which 
are recorded the names of previous occupants 
for many generations, mingled with scraps of 
very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written 
in characters which I can scarcely decipher, 
and which extol the charms of many a beauty 
of Little Britain who has long, long since 
bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am 
an idle personage, with no apparent occupa- 
tion, and pay my bill regularly every week, I 
am looked upon as the only independent 
gentleman of the neighborhood, and, being 
curious to learn the internal state of a corn- 
Britain, many of those httle lanes and courts that belong 
immediately to Cloth Fair. 



344 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

munity so apparently shut up within itself, I 
have mcnaged to work my way into all the 
concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's 
core of the city, the stronghold of true John 
Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it was 
in its better days, with its antiquated folks and 
fashions. Here flourish in great preservation 
many of the holiday games and customs of yore. 
The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes 
on Shrove Tuesday, hot cross-buns on Good 
Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas; they 
send love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn the 
Pope on the Fifth of November, and kiss all 
the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. 
Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in 
superstitious veneration, and port and sherry 
maintain their grounds as the only true Eng- 
lish wines, all others being considered vile out- 
landish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city 
wonders, which its inhabitants consider the 
wonders of the world, such as the great bell of 
St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it 
tolls; the figures that strike the hours at St. 
Dunstan's clock, the Monument; the lions in 
the Tower; and the wooden giants in Guild- 
hall. They still believe in dreams and fortune- 
telling, and an old woman that lives in Bull- 
and- Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsist- 
ence by detecting stolen goods and promising 
the girls good husbands. . They are apt to be 
rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses, 
and if a dog howls dolefully at night it is looked 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 845 

Upon as a sure sign of death in the place. 
There are even many ghost-stories current, 
particularly concerning the old mansion- 
houses, in several of which it is said strange 
sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, 
the former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging 
sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, 
stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen 
walking up and down the great waste cham- 
bers on moonlight nights, and are supposed to 
be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their 
court- dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great 
men. One of the most important of the for- 
mer is a tall, dry old gentleman of the name 
of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's 
shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full 
of cavities and projections, with a brown circle 
round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. 
He is much thought of by the old women, who 
consider him as a kind of conjurer because he 
has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up 
in his shop and several snakes in bottles. He 
is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, 
and is much given to pore over alarming 
accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earth- 
quakes, and volcanic eruptions; which last 
phenomena he considers as signs of the times. 
He has always some dismal tale of the kind to 
deal out to his customers with their doses, and 
thus at the same time puts both soul and body 
into an uproar. He is a great believer in 
omens and predictions ; and has the prophecies 
of Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. 



346 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

No man can make so much out of an eclipse, 
or even an unusually dark day ; and he shook 
the tail of the last comet over the heads of his 
customers and disciples until they were nearly 
frightened out of their wits. He has lately 
got hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on 
which he has been unusually eloquent. There 
has been a saying current among the ancient 
sibyls, who treasure up these things, that when 
the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange 
shook hands with the dragon on the top of 
Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take 
place. This strange conjunction, it seems, 
has as strangely cortie to pass. The same 
architect has been engaged lately on the repairs 
of the cupola of the Exchange and the steeple 
of Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, the 
dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek 
by jole, in the yard of his workshop. 

"Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to 
say, "may go star-gazing, and look for con- 
junctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunc- 
tion on the earth, near at home and under our 
own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and 
calculations of astrologers. * ' Since these por- 
tentous weathercocks have thus laid their heads 
together, wonderful events had already 
occurred. The good old king, notwithstand- 
ing that he had lived eighty-two years, had all 
at once given up the ghost ; another king had 
mounted the throne; a royal duke had died 
suddenly , another, in France, had been mur- 
dered; there had been radical meetings in all 
parts of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 347 

Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street; 
and, above all, the queen had returned to Eng- 
land ! All these sinister events are recounted 
by Mr. Skyrme with a mysterious look and a 
dismal shake of the head; and being taken with 
his drugs, and associated in the minds of his 
auditors with stuffed-sea-monsters, bottled 
serpents, and his own visage, which is a title- 
page of tribulation, they have spread great 
gloom through the minds of the people of 
Little Britain. They shake their heads when- 
ever they go by Bow Church, and observe that 
they never expected any good to come of tak- 
ing down that steeple, which in old times told 
nothing but glad tidings, as the history of 
Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a sub- 
stantial cheesemonger, who lives in a frag- 
ment of one of the old family mansions, and is 
as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied 
mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. 
Indeed, he is a man of no little standing and 
importance, and his renown extends through 
Huggin lane and Lad lane, and even unto 
Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much 
taken in affairs of state, having read the Sun- 
day papers for the last half century, together 
with the "Gentleman's Magazine," Rapin's 
"History of England," and the "Naval Chron- 
icle." His head is stored with invaluable 
maxims which have borne the test of time and 
use. for centuries. It is his firm opinion that 
"it is a moral impossible," so long as England 
is true to herself, that anything can shake 



348 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

her: and he has much to say on the subject of 
the national debt, which, somehow or other, 
he proves to be a great national bulwark and 
blessing. He passed the greater part of his 
life in the purlieus of Little Britain until of 
late years, when, having become rich and 
grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he 
begins to take his pleasure and see the world. 
He has, therefore, made several excursions to 
Hampstead, Highgate, and other neighboring 
towns, where he has passed whole afternoons 
in looking back upon the metropolis through a 
telescope and endeavoring to descry the steeple 
of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman 
of Bull-and-Mouth Street, but touches his hat 
as he passes, and he is considered quite a 
patron at the coach-oflQce of the Goose and 
Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family 
have been very urgent for him to make an 
expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts 
of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and 
indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to 
undertake sea- voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions 
and divisions, and party spirit ran very high 
at one time, in consequence of two rival 
"Burial Societies" being set up in the place. 
One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse- 
Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger; 
the other at the Cock and Crown, under the 
auspices of the apothecary: it is needless to 
say that the latter was the most flourishing. 
I have passed an evening or two at each, and 
have acquired much valuable information as to 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 349 

the best mode of being buried, the comparative 
merits of churchyards, together with divers 
hints on the subject of patent iron coffins. I 
have heard the question discussed in all its 
bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the 
latter on account of their durability. The 
feuds occasioned by these societies have hap- 
pily died of late ; but they were for a long time 
prevailing themes of controversy, the people 
of Little Britain being extremely solicitous of 
funeral honors and of lying comfortably in 
their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a 
third of quite a different cast, which tends to 
throw the sunshine of good-humor over the 
whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at 
a little old-fashioned house kept by a jolly 
publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing 
for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with a 
most seductive bunch of grapes. The whole 
edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch the 
eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as "Truman, 
Hanbury, and Go's Entire," "Wine, Rum, and 
Brandy Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum, and Com- 
pounds," etc. This indeed has been a temple 
of Bacchus and Momus from time immemorial. 
It has always been in the family of the Wag- 
staffs, so that its history is tolerably preserved 
by the present landlord. It was much fre« 
quented by the gallants and cavalieros of the 
reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now 
and then by the wits of Charles the Second's 
day. But what Wagstaff principally prides 
himself upon is that Henry the Eighth, in one 



350 ' THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of 
one of his ancestors with his famous walking- 
staff. This, however, is considered as rather 
a dubious and vain-glorious boast of the land- 
lord. 

The club which now holds its weekly ses- 
sions here goes by the name of "the Roaring 
Lads of Little Britain." They abound in old 
catches, glees, and choice stories that are tra- 
ditional in the place and not to be met with in 
any other part of the metropolis. There is a 
madcap undertaker who is inimitable at a 
merry song, but the life of the club, and in- 
deed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully 
Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all 
v^rags before him, and he has inherited with the 
inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go 
with it from generation to generation as heir- 
looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with 
bandy legs and pot belly, a red face with a 
moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair 
behind. At the opening of every club night 
he is called in to sing his "Confession of 
Faith," which is the famous old drinking 
trowl from "Gammer Gurton's Needle. " He 
sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as 
he received it from his father's lips; for it has 
been a standing favorite at the Half- Moon and 
Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written; 
nay, he affirms that his predecessors have 
often had the honor of singing it before the 
nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, 
when Little Britain was in all its glory.* 

* As mine host of the Half Moon's Confession of 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 351 

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a 
club night, the shouts of merriment, the 
snatches of song, and now and then the choral 
bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which 
issue from this jovial mansion. At such times 
the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a 
delight equal to that of gazing into a confec- 
tioner's window or snuffing up the steams of a 
cook-shop. 

There are two annual events which produce 
great stir and sensation in Little Britain: 
these are St. Bartholomew's Fair and the Lord 

Faith may not be familiar to the majority of readers, 
and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Little 
Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I 
would observe that the whole club always join in the 
chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clatter- 
ing of pewter pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though 1 go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within. 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 
Both foote and hand go colde, 
But, belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe, 
Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, 

And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte me, ifl wolde, 



352 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Mayor's Day. During the time of the Fair, 
which is held in the adjoining regions of 
Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gos- 
siping and gadding about. The late quiet 
streets of Little Britain are overrun with an 
irruption of strange figures and faces; every 
tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle 
and the song are heard from the taproom 
morning, noon, and night ; and at each window 
may be seen some group of boon companions, 
with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in 
mouth and tankard in hand, fondling and pros- 
ing, and singing maudlin songs over their 
liquor. Even the sober decorem of private 

I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 
Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke. 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The tears run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle, 

Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte 

Of this jolly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke. 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse. 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lives of them and their wives. 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 

Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 353 

familie;S, which I must say is rigidly kept np at 
other times among my neighbors, is no proof 
against this saturnalia. There is no such 
thing as keeping maid-servants within doors. 
Their brains are absolutely set madding with 
Punch and the Puppet-Show, the Flying 
Horses, Signior Polito, the Fire- Eater, the 
celebrated Mr. Paap, and the Irish Giant. 
The children too lavish all their holiday money 
in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house 
with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, 
and penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's Day is the great 
anniversary. The Lord Mayor is looked up 
to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the 
greatest potentate upon earth, his gilt coach 
with six horses as the summit of human splen- 
dor, and his procession, with all the sheriffs 
and aldermen in his train, as the grandest of 
earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea 
that the king himself dare not enter the city 
without first knocking at the gate of Temple 
Bar and asking permission of the Lord 
Mayor; for if he did, heaven and earth! there 
is no knowing what might be the consequence. 
The man in armor who rides before the Lord 
Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders 
to cut down everybody that offends against the 
dignity of the cit}'' ; and then there is the little 
man with a velvet porringer on his head, vv^ho ' 
sits at the window of the state-coach and holds 
the city sword, as long as a pike-staff. Odd's 
blood! if he once draws that sword. Majesty 
itself is not safe. 

23 Sketch Book 



854 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Under the protection of this mighty poten- 
tate, therefore, the good people of Little 
Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an 
effectual barrier against all interior foes; and 
as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but 
to throw himself into the Tower, call in the 
train-bands, and put the standing army of 
Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defi- 
ance to the world ! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its 
own habits, and its own opinions, Little Britain 
has long flourished as a sound heart to this 
great fungous metropolis. I have pleased my- 
self with considering it as a chosen spot, 
where the principles of sturdy John Bullism 
were garnered up, like seed corn, to re- 
new the national character when it had run to 
waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also , 
in the general spirit of harmony that pre- 
vailed throughout it; for though there might 
now and then be a few clashes of opinion be- 
tween the adherents of cheesemonger and the 
apothecary, and an occasional feud between 
the burial societies, yet they were but tran- 
sient clouds and soon passed away. The 
neighbors met with good- will, parted with a 
shake of the hand, and never abused each 
other ex:ept behind their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junket- 
ing parties at which I have been present, 
where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan, 
Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old 
games, and where we sometimes had a good old 
English country dance to the tune of Sir 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 355 

Roger de Coverley. Once a year also the 
neighbors would gather together and go on a 
gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have 
done any man's heart good to see the merri- 
ment that took place here as we banqueted on 
the grass under the trees. How we made the 
woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs 
of little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker! 
After dinner, too, the young folks would play 
at blindman's-buff and hide-and-seek, and it 
was amusing to see them tangled among the 
briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now 
and then squeak from among the bushes. The 
elder folks would gather round the cheese- 
monger and the apothecary to hear them talk 
politics, for they generally brought out a news- 
paper in, their pockets to pass away time in the 
country. They would now and then, to be 
sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their 
disputes were always adjusted by reference to 
a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, 
who, never exactly comprehending the sub- 
ject, managed somehow or other to decide in 
favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philoso- 
pher or historian, are doomed to changes and 
revolutions. Luxury and innovation creep in, 
factions arise, and families now and then 
spring up whose ambition and intrigues throw 
the whole system into confusion. Thus in 
latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain 
been grievously disturbed and its golden sim- 
plicity of manners threatened with total sub- 



356 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

version by the aspiring family of a retired' 
butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long- been; 
among the most thriving and popular in the 
neighborhood : the Miss Lambs were the belles 
of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased 
when Old Lamb had made money enough to 
shut up shop and put his name on a brass plate 
on his door. In an evil hour, however; one of 
the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady 
in attendance on the Lady Mayoress at her 
grand annual ball, on which occasion she 
wore three towering ostrich feathers on her 
head. The family never got over it; they 
were immediately smitten with a passion for 
high life; setup a one-horse carriage, put a 
bit of gold lace found the errand-boy's hat, 
and have been the talk and detestation of the 
v/hole neighborhood ever since. They could 
no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or 
blindman's-buff ; they could endure no dances 
but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard 
of in Little Britain; and they took to reading 
novels, talking bad French, and playing upon 
the piano. Their brother, too, who had been 
articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and 
a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these 
parts, and he confounded the worthy folks ex- 
ceedingly by talking about Kean, the Opera, 
and the "Edinburgh Review. " 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a 
grand ball, to which they neglected to invite 
any of their old neighbors; but they had a 
great deal of genteel company from Theobald's 



THE' SKETCH BOOK. 357 

Road, Red Lion Square, and other parts 
towards the west. There were several beaux of 
their brother's acquaintance from Gray's Inn 
Lane and Hatton Garden, and not less than 
three aldermen's ladies with their daughters. 
This was not to be forgotten nor forgiven. 
All Little Britain was in an uproar with the 
smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable 
horses, and the rattling and jingling of hack- 
ney-coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood 
might be seen popping their night-caps out at 
every window, watching the crazy vehicles 
rumble by and there was a knot of virulent old 
cronies that kept a look-out from a house just 
opposite the retired butcher's and scanned 
and criticised every one that knocked at the 
door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, 
and the whole neighborhood declared they 
would have nothing more to say to the Lambs. 
It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no 
engagements with her quality acquaintance, 
would give little humdrum tea- junketings to 
some of her old cronies, "quite," as she would 
say, "in a friendly way;" and it is equally true 
that her invitations were always accepted, in 
spite of all previous vows to the contrary. 
Nay, the good ladies would sit and be de- 
lighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who 
would condescend to strum an Irish melody 
for them on the piano; and they would listen 
with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anec- 
doteS' of Alderman Plunket's family, of Port- 
soken Ward, and the Misses Timberlake, the 



358 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

rich heiresses of Crutched Friars; but then 
they relieved their consciences and averted the 
reproaches of their confederates by canvass- 
ing at the next gossiping convocation every- 
thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambs . 
and their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be 
made fashionable was the retired butcher him- 
self. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness 
of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, 
with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair 
like a shoe- brush, and a broad face mottled 
like his own beef. It was in vain that the 
daughters always spoke of him as "the old gen- 
tleman," addressed him as "papa" in tones of 
infinite softness, and endeavored to coax him 
into a dressing-gown and slippers and other 
gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, 
there was no keeping down the butcher. His 
sturdy nature would break through all their 
glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good- 
humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes 
made his sensitive daughters shudder, and he 
persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a 
morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a 
"bit of sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the un- 
popularity of his family. He found his old 
comrades gradually growing cold and civil to 
him, no longer laughing at his jokes, and now 
and then throwing out ailing at "some peo- 
ple" and a hint about "quality binding." 
This both nettled and perplexed the honest 
butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 359 

consummate policy of the shrewder sex, tak- 
ing advantage of the circumstance, at length 
prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's 
pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's, to sit after 
dinner by himself and take his pint of port — a 
liquor he detested — and to nod in his chair in 
solitary and dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunt- 
ing along the streets in French bonnets with 
unknown beaux, and talking and laughing so 
loud that it distressed the nerves of every 
good lady within hearing. They even went 
so far as to attempt patronage, and actually 
induced a French daneing-master to set up in 
the neighborhood; but the worthy folks of 
Little Britain took fire at it, and did so perse- 
cute the poor Gaul that he was fain to pack 
up fiddle and dancing-pumps and decamp with 
such precipitation that he absolutely forgot to 
pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea 
that all this fiery indignation on the part of 
the community was merely the overflowing 
of their zeal for good old English manners 
and their horror of innovation, and I applauded 
the silent contempt they were so vociferous 
in expressing for upstart pride, French fash- 
ions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to 
say that I soon perceived the infection had 
taken hold, and that my neighbors, after con- 
demning, were beginning to follow their ex- 
ample. I overheard my landlady importuning 
her husband to let their daughters have one 
quarter at French and music, and that they 



360 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

might take a few lessons in quadrille. I even 
saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less 
than five French bonnets, precisely like those 
of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little 
Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would 
gradually die away, that the Lambs might 
move out of the neighborhood, might die, or 
might run away with attorney's apprentices, 
and that quiet and simplicity might be again 
restored to the community. But unluckily a 
rival power arose. An opulent oilman died 
and left a widow with a large jointure and a 
family of buxom daughters. The young 
ladies had long been repining in secret at the 
parsimony of a prudent father, which kept 
down all their elegant aspirings. Their ambi- 
tion, being now no longer restrained, broke 
out into a blaze, and they openly took the 
field against the family of the butcher. It is 
true that the Lambs, having had the first 
start, had naturally an advantage of them in 
the fashionable career. They could speak' a 
little bad French, play the piano, dance quad- 
rilles, and had formed high acquaintances; 
but the Trotters were not to be distanced. 
When the Lambs appeared with two feathers 
in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four 
and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave 
a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be be- 
hindhand; and, though they might not boast 
of as good company, yet they had double the 
number and were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length dividesd 




Westminster Abbey. — Page 240- 

Sketch Book. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. m 

itself into fashionable factions tinder the ban- 
ners of these two families. The old games of 
Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are en- 
tirely discarded ; there is no such thing as get- 
ting up an honest country dance; and on my 
attempting to kiss a young lady under the 
mistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly 
repulsed, the Miss Lambs having pronounced 
it "shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also 
broken out as to the most fashionable part of 
Little Britain, the Lambs standing up for the 
dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters 
for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions 
and internal dissensions, like the great empire; 
whose name it bears; and what will be the 
result would puzzle the apothecary himself, 
with all his talent at prognostics, to determine, 
though I apprehend that it will terminate in 
the total downfall of genuine John Bullism. 

The immediate effects are extremely un- 
pleasant to me. Being a single man, and, as 
I observed before, rather an idle good-for- 
nothing personage, I have been considered the 
only gentleman by profession in the place. I 
stand, therefore, in high favor with both par- 
ties, and have to hear all their cabinet coun- 
sels and mutual backbitings. As I am too 
civil not to agree with the ladies on all occa- 
sions, I have committed myself most horribly 
with both parties by abusing their opponents. 
I might manage to reconcile this to my con- 
science, which is a truly accommodating one, 
but I cannot to my apprehension: if the 

24 Sketch Book 



362 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconcil- 
iation and compare notes, I am ruined. 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a re- 
treat in time, and am actually looking out for 
some other nest in this great city where old 
English manners are still kept up, where 
French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor 
spoken, and where there are no fashionable 
families of retired tradesmen. This found, I 
will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I 
have an old house about my ears, bid a long, 
though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, 
and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and 
the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of 
Little Britain. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 363 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would 

dream ; 
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

— Garrick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this 
wide world which he can truly call his own, 
there is a momentary feeling of something 
like independence and territorial consequence 
when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off 
his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and 
stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the 
world without go as it may, let kingdoms rise 
or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to 
pay his bill he is, for the time being, the very 
monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair is 
his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little 
parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed 
empire. It is a morsel of certainty snatched 
from the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it 
is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a 
cloudy day; and he who has advanced some 
way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the 
importance of husbanding even morsels and 
moments of enjoyment. "Shall I not take 
mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave 
the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, 



364 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and cast a complacent look about the little par- 
lor of the Red Horse at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just 
passing through my mind as the clock struck 
midnight from the tower of the church in which 
he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the 
door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in 
her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating 
air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a 
modest hint that it was time to retire. My 
dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so 
abdicating my throne, like a prudent poten- 
tate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the 
Stratford Guide- Book under my arm as a pil- 
low companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all 
night of Shakespeare, the Jubilee, and David 
Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quicken- 
ing mornings which w^e sometimes have in 
early spring, for it was about the middle of 
March. The chills of a long winter had sud- 
denly given way ; the north wind had spent its 
last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from 
the west, breathing the breath of life into Na- 
ture, and wooing every bud and flower to burst 
forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pil- 
grimage. My first visit was to the house where 
Shakespeare was born, and where, according 
to tradition, he was brought up to his father's 
craft of wood-combing. It is a small mean- 
' looking edifice of wood and plaster a true nest- 
ling-place of genius, which seems to delight in 
hatching its offspring in by-corners. The 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 365 

walls of its squalid chambers are covered with 
names and inscriptions in every language by 
pilgrims of all nations, ranks and conditions, 
from the prince to the peasant, and present a 
simple but striking instance of the spontaneous 
and universal homage of mankind to the great 
poet of Nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady 
in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue, 
anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locks 
of flazen hair curling from under an exceed- 
ingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous 
in exhibiting the relics with which this, like 
all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There 
was the shattered stock of the very matchlock 
with which Shakespeare shot the deer on his 
poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco- 
box, which proves that he was a rival smoker 
of Sir Walter Raleigh; the sword also with 
which he played Hamlet; and the identical 
lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered 
Romeo and Juliet at the tomb. There was an 
ample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberry 
tree, which seems to have as extraordinary 
powers of self-multiplication as the wood of 
the true cross, of which there is enough extant 
to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, hov/- 
ever, is Shakespeare's chair. It stands in a 
chimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber just 
behind what was his father's shop. Here he 
may many a time have sat when a boy, watch- 
ing the slowly revolving spit with all the long- 
ing of an urchin, or of an evening listening to 



366 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the cronies and gossips of Stratford dealing 
forth churchyard tales and legendary anec- 
dotes of the troublesome times of England. In 
this chair it is the custom of every one that 
visits the house to sit; whether this be done 
with the hope of imbibing any of the inspira- 
tion of the bard I am at a loss to say ; I merely 
mention the fact, and mine hostess privately 
assured me that, though built of solid oak, 
such was the fervent zeal of devotees the chair 
had to be new bottomed at least once in three 
years. It is worthy of notice also, in the his- 
tory of this extraordinary chair, that it par- 
takes something of the volatile nature of the 
Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the 
Arabian enchanter ; for, though sold some few 
years since to a northern princess, yet, strange 
to tell, it has found its way back again to the 
old chimney-corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, 
and am very willing to be deceived where the 
deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am, 
therefore, a ready believer in relics, legends, 
and local anecdotes of goblins and great men, 
and would advise all travelers who travel for 
their gratification to be the same. What is it 
to us whether these stories be true or false, so 
long as we can persuade ourselves into the be- 
lief of them and enjoy all the charm of the ' 
reality? There is nothing like resolute good- 
humored credulity in these masters, and on this 
occasion I went even so far as willingly to be- 
lieve the claims of mine hostess to a lineal 
descent from the poet, when, unluckily for my 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 367 

faith, she put into my hands a play of her own 
composition, which set all belief in her own 
consanguinity at defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few 
paces brought me to his grave. He lies buried 
in the chancel of the parish church, a large and 
venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly 
ornamented. It stands on the banks of the 
Avon on an embowered point, and separated 
by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the 
town. Its situation is quiet and retired ; the 
river runs murmuring at the foot of the church- 
yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks 
droop their branches into its clear bosom. An 
avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curi- 
ously interlaced, so as to form in summer an 
arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate 
of the yard to the church-porch. The graves 
are overgrown with grass; the gray tomb- 
stones, some of them nearly sunk into the 
earth, are half covered with moss, which has 
likewise tinted the reverend old building. 
Small birds have built their nests among the 
cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up 
a continual flutter and chirping ; and rooks are 
sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the 
gray-headed sexton, Edmonds, and accom- 
panied him home to get the key of the church. 
He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for 
eighty years, and seemed still to consider him- 
self a vigorous man, with the trivial exception 
that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a 
few years past. His dwelling was a cottage 



368 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

looking out upon the Avon and its bordering 
meadows, and was a picture of that neatness, 
order, and comfort which pervade the humblest 
dwelling's in this country. A low whitewashed 
room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, 
served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of 
pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the 
dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed 
and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer- 
book, and the drawer contained the family 
library, composed of about half a score of well- 
thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that 
important article of cottage furniture, ticked 
on the opposite side of the room, with a bright 
warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and 
the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on the 
other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and 
deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its 
jambs. In one corner sat the old man's 
granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, 
and in the opposite corner v/as a superannu- 
ated crony whom he addressed by the name of 
John Ange, and who, I found, had been his 
companion from childhood. They had played 
together in infancy; they had worked together 
in manhood; they were nov/ tottering about 
and gossiping away the evening of life; and 
in a short time they will probably be buried 
together in the neighboring churchyard. It is 
not often that we see two streams of existence 
running thus evenly and tranquilly side by 
side; it is only in such quiet "bosom scenes" 
of life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 369 

anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chron- 
iclers, but they had nothing new to impart. 
The long interval during which Shakespeare's 
writings lay in comparative neglect has spread 
its shadow over his history, and it is his good 
or evil lot that scarcely anything remains to 
his biographers but a scanty handful of con- 
jectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been 
employed as carpenters on the preparations for 
the celebrated Stratford Jubilee, and they 
remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the 
fete, who superintended the arrangements, and 
who, according to the sexton, was "a short 
punch man, very lively and bustling." John 
Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shake- 
speare's mulberry tree, of which he had a 
morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sov- 
ereign quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy 
wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent 
dame who shows the Shakespeare house. 
John Ange shook his head when I mentioned 
her valuable and inexhaustible collection of 
relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry 
tree; and the old sexton even expressed a 
doubt as to Shakespeare having been born in 
her house. I soon discovered that he looked 
upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival 
to the poet's tomb, the latter having compar- 
atively but few visitors. Thus it is that his- 
torians differ at the very outset, and mere 
pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into 
different channels even at the fountain-head. 



370 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

We approached the church throuo-h the ave- 
nue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, 
highly ornamented, with carved doors of 
massive oak. The interior is spacious, and 
the architecture and embellishments superior 
to those of most country churches. There are 
several ancient monuments of nobility and 
gentry, over some of which hang funeral 
escutcheons and banners dropping piece-meal 
from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is 
in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepul- 
chral. Tall elms wave before the pointed 
windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short 
distance from the walls, keeps up a low per- 
petual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot 
where the bard is buried. There are four 
lines inscribed on it, said to have been v/ritten 
by himself, and which have in them something 
extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, 
they show that solicitude about the quiet of the 
grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities 
and thoughtful minds: 

Good friend, for Jesus* sake, forbeare 
To dig the dust inclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones. 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, 
is a bust of Shakespeare, put up shortly after 
his death, and considered as a resemlDlance. 
The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely- 
arched forehead; and I thought I could read 
in it clear indications of that cheerful, social 
disposition by which he was as much character- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 371 

ized among his contemporaries as by the vast- 
ness of his genius. The inscription mentions 
his age at the time of his decease, fifty-three 
years — an untimely death for the world, for 
what fruit might not have been expected from 
the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered 
as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, 
and flourishing in the sunshine of popular any 
royal favor? 

The inscription on the tombstone has not 
been without its effect. It has prevented the 
removal of his remains from the bosom of his 
native place to Westminster Abbey, which was 
at one time contemplated. A few years since 
also, as some laborers were digging to make 
an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to 
leave a vacant space almost like an arch, 
through which one might have reached into his 
grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle 
with his remains so awfully guarded by a mal- 
ediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curi- 
ous or any collector of relics should be tempted 
to commit depredations, the old sexton kept 
watch over the place for two days, until the 
vault was finished and the aperture closed 
again. He told me that he had made bold to 
look in at the hole, but could see neither cof^n 
nor bones — nothing but dust. It was some- 
thing, I thought, to have seen the dust of 
Shakespeare, 

Next to this grave are those of his v/ife, his 
favorite daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his 
family. On a tomb close by, also, is a full- 
length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of 



S72 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

usurious memory, on whom lie is said to have 
written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other 
monuments around, but the mind refuses to 
dwell on anything that is not connected with 
Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place; 
the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. 
The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted 
by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence; 
other traces of him may be false or dubious, 
but here is palpable evidence and absolute cer- 
tainty. As I trod the sounding pavement 
there was something intense and thrilling in 
the idea that in very truth the remains of 
Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet. 
It was a long time before I could prevail upon 
myself to leave the place ; and as I passed 
through the churchyard, I plucked a branch 
from one of the yew trees, the only relic that 
I have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pil- 
grim's devotion, but I had a desire to see the 
old family seat of the Lucys at Charlecot, and 
to ramble through the park where Shake- 
speare, in company with some of the roisterers 
of Stratford, committed his youthful offence of 
deer-stealing. In this hare-brained exploit 
we are told that he was taken prisoner and car- 
ried to the keeper's lodge, where he remained 
all night in doleful captivity. When brought 
into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his 
treatment must have been galling and humil- 
iating; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 373 

produce a rough pasquinade which was affixed 
to the park gate at Charlecot.* 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the 
knight so incensed him that he applied to a 
lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of the 
laws in force against the rhyming deer- stalker. 
Shakespeare did not wait to brave the united 
puissance of a knight of the shire and a 
country attorney. He forthwith abandoned 
the pleasant banks of the Avon and his pater- 
nal trade ; wandered away to London ; became 
a hanger-on to the theatres; then an actor; 
and finally wrote for the stage; and thus, 
through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, 
Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber and 
the world gained an imm.ortal poet. He re- 
tained, however, for a long time, a sense of the 
harsh treatment of the lord of Charlecot, and 
revenged himself in his writings, but in the 
sportive w^ay of a good-natured mind. Sir 
Thomas is said to be the original of Justice 
Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him 
by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like 



*The following is the only stanza extant of this lam- 
poon: 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse. 
If iowsie is Lucy, as some volks miscalle it. 
Then Lucy is Iowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great ; 

Yet an asse in his state. 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is Iowsie, as some volks miscalle it, 
Then sin^ Iowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 



374 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

those of the knight, had white luces* in the 
qnarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his 
biographers to soften and explain away this 
early transgression of the poet; but I look 
upon it ^s one of those thoughtless exploits 
natural to his situation and turn of mind. 
Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless all 
the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, un- 
disciplined and undirected genius. The poetic 
temperament has naturally something in it of 
the vagabond. When left to itself it runs 
loosely and wildly, and delights in everything 
eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn up 
of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, whether 
a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue 
or a great poet; and had not Shakespeare's 
mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he 
might have as daringly transcended all civil 
as he has all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when 
running like an unbroken colt about the neigh- 
borhood of Stratford, he was to be found in the 
company of all kinds of odd anomalous charac- 
ters, that he associated with all the madcaps of 
the place, and was one of those unlucky ur- 
chins at mention of whom old men shake their 
heads and predict that they will one day come 
to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir 
Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a iorsLj 
to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and 



*The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon 
about Charlecot. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 375 

as yet untamed, imagination as something 
delightfully adventurous.* 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its sur- 
rounding park still remains in the possession of 
the Lucy family, and are peculiarly interesting 
from being connected with this whimsical but 

*A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associ- 
ates in his youthful days may be found in a traditionary 
anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, 
and mentioned in his "Picturesque Views on the Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little 
market-town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two soci- 
eties of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the 
appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the 
lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a con- 
test of drinking. Among others, the people of Strat- 
ford were called out to prove the strength of their heads ; 
and in the number of the champions was Shakespeare, 
who, in spite of the proverb that "they who drink beer 
will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his 
sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the 
first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet the 
legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely 
marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were 
forced to lie down under a crab tree, where they passed 
the night. It was still standing, and goes by the name 
ot Shakespeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and 
proposed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying 
he had enough, having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

"The village here alluded to," says Ireland, "still 
bears the epithets thus given them : the people of Peb- 
worth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and 
tabor : Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough ; 
and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." 



376 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

eventful circumstance, in the scanty history of 
the bard. As the house stood at little more 
than three miles' distance from Stratford, I re- 
solved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might 
stroll leisurely through some of those scenes 
from which Shakespeare must have derived his 
earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless, but 
English scenery is always verdant, and the 
sudden change in the temperature of the 
weather was surprising in its quickening 
effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring 
and animating to witness this first awakening 
of spring; to feel its warm breath stealing 
over the senses; to see the moist mellow earth 
beginning to put forth the green sprout and 
the tender blade, and the trees and shrubs, in 
their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving 
the promise of returning foliage and flower. 
The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the 
skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste 
white blossoms in the small gardens before the 
cottages. The bleating of the' new-dropt lambs 
was faintly heard from the fields. The spar- 
row twittered about the thatched eaves and 
budding hedges; the robin threw a livelier 
note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and 
the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom 
of the meadow, towered away into the bright 
fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. 
As I watched the little songster mounting up 
higher and higher, until his body was a mere 
speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while 
the ear was still filled with his music, it called 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 377 

to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song in 
Cymbeline : 

Hark! hark! the lark at heav'n's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise ! 

Indeed, the whole country about here is po- 
etic ground; everything is associated with the 
idea of Shakespeare. Every old cottage that 
I saw I fancied into some resort of his boy- 
hood, where he had acquired his intimate 
knowledge of rustic life and manners, and 
heard those legendary tales and wild supersti- 
tions which he has woven like witchcraft into 
his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it 
was a popular amusement in winter evenings 
"to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of 
errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, 
giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fair- 
ies, goblins, and friars.* 

*Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates 
a number of these fireside fancies : "And they have so 
fraid us with host bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, 
elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit 
with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, 
imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incu- 
bus, Robin-goodfellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man 
in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier drake, the puckl^, 
Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and 
such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shad- 
owes." 



378 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight 
of the Avon, which made a variety of the most 
fancy doublings and windings through a wide 
and fertile valley — sometimes glittering from 
among willows which fringed its borders; 
sometimes disappearing among groves or be- 
neath green banks; and sometimes rambling 
out into full view and making an azure sweep 
round a slope of meadow-land. This beautiful 
bosom of country is called the Vale of the Red 
Horse. A distant line undulating blue hills 
seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft 
intervening landscape lies in a manner en- 
chained in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three 
miles, I turned off into a footpath, which led 
along the borders of fields and under hedge- 
rows to a private gate of the park ; there was a 
stile, however,* for the benefit of the pedes- 
trian, there being a public right of way 
through the grounds. I delight in these hos- 
pitable estates, in which every one has a- kind 
of property — at least as far as the footpath is 
concerned. It in some measure reconciles a 
poor man to his lot, and, what is more, to the 
better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks 
and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his rec- 
reation. He breathes the pure air as freely 
and lolls as luxuriously under the shade as the 
lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege 
of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, 
at the same time, the trouble of paying for it 
and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 379 

oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the 
growth of centuries. The wind sounded sol- 
emnly among their branches, and the rooks 
cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree- 
tops. The eye ranged through a long lessen- 
ing vista, with nothing to interrupt the view 
but a distant statue and a vagrant deer stalk- 
ing like a shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old 
avenues that has the effect of Gothic architect- 
ure, not merely from the pretended similarity 
of form, but from their bearing the evidence 
of long duration, and of having had their origin 
in a period of time with which we associate 
ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken 
also the long-settled dignity and proudly-con- 
centrated independence of an ancient family ; 
and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old 
friend observe, when speaking of the sumptu- 
ous palaces of modern gentry, that "money 
could do much with stone and mortar, but 
thank Heaven! there was no such thing as sud- 
denly building up an avenue of oaks. ' ' 

It was from wandering in early life among 
this rich scenery, and about the romantic soli- 
tudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, which 
then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that 
some of Shakespeare's commentators have 
supposed he derived his noble forest medita- 
tions of Jaques and the enchanted woodland 
pictures in "As You Like It." It is in lonely 
wanderings through such scenes that the mind 
drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, 
and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty 



380 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and majesty of Nature. The imagination 
kindles into reverie and rapture, vague but 
exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon 
it, and we revel in a mute and almost incom- 
municable luxury of thought. It was in some 
such mood, and perhaps under one of those 
very trees before me, which threw their broad 
shades over the grassy banks and quivering 
waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy may 
have sallied forth into that little song which 
breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary: 

Unto the greenwood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me 

And tune his merry throat 

Unto the sweet bird's note, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither. 

Here shall he see 

No enemy, >, 

But winter and rough weather. > 

I had now come in sight of the house. It ik 
a large building of brick with stone quoins, 
and is in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's 
day, having been built in the first year of her 
reign. The exterior remains very nearly in 
its original state, and may be considered a fair 
specimen of the residence of a wealthy country 
gentleman of those days. A great gateway 
opens from the park into a kind of courtyard 
in front of the house, ornamented with a grass- 
plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway 
is in imitation of the ancient barbacan, being a 
kind of outpost and flanked by towers, though 
evidently for mere ornament, instead of de- 
fence. The front of the house is completely in 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 381 

the old style with stone-shafted casements, a 
great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and a 
portal with armorial bearings over it carved in 
stone. At each corner of the building is an 
octagon tower surmounted by a gilt ball and 
weather-cock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, 
makes a bend just at the foot of a gently-slop- 
ing bank which sweeps down from the rear of 
the house. Large herds of deer were feed- 
ing or reposing upon its borders, and swans 
were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As 
I contemplated the venerable old mansion I 
called to mind Falstaff's encomium on Justice 
Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference 
and real vanity of the latter : 

*'Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling, and a rich. 
"Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beg- 
gars all, Sir John: — marry, good air." 

Whatever may have been the joviality of 
the old mansion in the days of Shakespeare, it 
had now an air of stillness and solitude. The 
great iron gateway that opened into the court- 
yard was locked ; there was no show of ser- 
vants bustling about the place ; the deer gazed 
quietly at me as I passed, being no longer 
harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. 
The only sign of domestic life that I met with 
was a white cat stealing with wary look and 
stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on 
some nefarious expedition, I must not omit 
to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow 
which I saw suspended against the barn-wall. 



382 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that 
lordly abhorrence of poachers and maintain 
that rigorous exercise of territorial power 
which was so strenuously manifested in the 
case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at 
length found my way to a la.teral portal, which 
was the e very-day entrance to the mansion. I 
was courteously received by a worthy old: 
housekeeper, who, with the civility and com- 
municativeness of her order, showed me the 
interior of the house. The greater part had 
undergone alterations and been adapted to 
modern tastes and modes of living: there is a 
fine old oaken staircase, and the great hall, 
that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, 
still retains much of the appearance it must 
have had in thie days of Shakespeare. The 
ceiling is arched and lofty, and at one end is a 
gallery in which stands an organ. The 
weapons and trophies of the chase, which for- 
merly adorned the hall of a country gentle- 
man, have made way for family portraits. 
There is a wide, hospitable fireplace, calcu- 
lated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, for- 
med)^ the rallying-place of winter festivity. 
On the opposite side of the hall is the huge 
Gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, which 
looks out upon the courtyard. Here are em- 
blazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings 
of the Lucy family for many generations, some 
being dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe 
in the quarterings the three white luces by 
which the character of Sir Thomas was first 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 383 

identified with that of Justice Shallow. They 
are mentioned in the first scene of the "Merry 
Wives of Windsor," where the justice is in a 
rage with Falstaff, for having "beaten his 
men, killed his deer, and broken into his Jodge. ' ' 
The poet had no doubt the offences of himself 
and his comrades in mind at the time, and we 
may suppose the family pride and vindictive 
threats of the puissant Shallow to be a carica- 
ture of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas 

"Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make 
a Star-Chamber matter of it ; if he were twenty John 
Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Goster, justice of peace and 
coram. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and ratolorum too, and a gentleman 
born, master parson ; who writes himself Armigero in 
any bill, warrant, quittance, cr obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time 
these three hundred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have 
done't, and all his ancestors that come after him may; 
they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. ... 

Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; 
there is no fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you,- 
shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a 
riot ; take your vizaments in that. 

Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the 
sword should end it!" 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a 
portrait, by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy 
family, a great beauty of the time of Charles 
the Second: the old housekeeper shook her 
head as she pointed to the picture, and in- 
formed me that this lady had, been sadly 



384 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

addicted to cards, and had gambled away a 
great portion of the family estate, among 
which was that part of the park where Shakes- 
peare and his comrades had killed the deer. 
The lands thus lost had not been entirely 
regained by the family even at the present 
day. It is but justice to this recreant dame 
to confess that she had a surpassing fine hand 
and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my atten- 
tion was a great painting over the fireplace, 
containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and 
his family who inhabited the hall in the latter 
part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first 
thought that it was the vindictive knight him- 
self, but the housekeeper assured me that it 
was his son ; the only likeness extant of the 
former being an effigy upon his tomb in the 
church of the neighboring hamlet of Gharle- 
cot* The picture gives a lively idea of the 

* This effigy is in white marble, and represents the 
knight in complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of 
his wife, and on her tomb is the following inscription ; 
which, if really composed by her husband, places him 
quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow: 

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas 
Lucy of Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, 
Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton m ye 
county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this 
wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye lo day of 
February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her 
age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and 
f aythf ul servant of her good God, never detected of any 
cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her 
husband most faythful and true. In friendship most 
constant ; to wha^in trust was committed unto her most 
secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of htr 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 385 

costume and manners of the time. Sir 
Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet, white 
. shoes with roses in them, and has a peaked 
yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, **a 
cane-colored beard. " His lady is seated on 
the opposite side of the picture in wide ruff 
and long stomacher, and the children have a 
most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. 
Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family 
group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the 
foreground, and one of the children holds a 
bow, all intimating the knight's skill in hunt- 
ing, hawking, and archery, so indispensable 
to an accomplished gentleman in those days.* 

house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did 
converse with her most rare and singular. A great 
maintayner of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her 
betters ; misliked of none unless of the envyous. When 
all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished 
with virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be 
equalled by any. As shee lived most virtuously so shee 
died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe 
what hath byn written to be true. 

Thonias Lucye. 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentlemen of 
his time, observes, "His housekeeping is seen much in 
the different families of dogs and serving-men atten- 
dant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats 
is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the 
true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to 
seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved 
with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a 
Mr. Hastings, remarks, "He kept all sorts of hounds 
that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had 
hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His 
great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, 
and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. 

25 Sketch Book 



386 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

I regretted to find that the ancient furni- 
ture of the hall had disappeared; for I had 
hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair of 
carved oak in which the country squire of for- 
mer days was wont to sway the sceptre of em- 
pire over his rural domains, and in which it 
might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas 
sat enthroned in awful state when the rec- 
reant Shakespeare was brought before him. 
As I like to deck out pictures for my own en- 
tertainment, I pleased myself with the idea 
that this very hall had been the scene of the 
unlucky bard's examination on the morning 
after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to 
myself the rural potentate surrounded by his 
body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated 
serving-men with their badges, while the luck- 
less culprit was brought in, forlorn and chop- 
fallen, in the custody of game-keepers, hunts- 
men, and whippers-in, and followed by a 
rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied 
bright faces of curious housemaids peeping 
from the half -opened doors, while from the 
gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned 
gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful pris- 
oner with that pity "that dwells in woman- 

On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the 
choicest terriers, hounds, ajid spaniels." 

"By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night 

I will not excuse you ; you shall not be excused ; 

excuses shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall 

serve; you shall not be excused Some pigeons, 

Davy, a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton; 
and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 'William 
Gook,' " 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 387 

hood." Who would have thought that this 
poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief 
authority of a country squire, and the sport of 
rustic boors, was soon to become the delight 
of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, 
the dictator to the human mind, and was to 
confer immortality on his oppressor by a cari- 
cature and a lampoon? 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into 
the garden, and I felt inclined to visit the 
orchard and harbor where the justice treated 
Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a last 
year's pippin of his own grafting, with a dish 
of caraways;" but I had already spent so 
much of the day in my ramblings that I was 
obliged to give up any further investigations. 
When about to take my leave I was gratified 
by the civil entreaties of the housekeeper *and 
butler that I would take some refreshment — 
an instance of good old hospitality which I 
grieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom meet 
with in modern days. I make no doubt it is 
a virtue which the present representative of 
the Lucys inherits from his ancestors; for 
Shakespeare, even in his caricature, makes 
Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as 
witness his pressing instances to Falstaff : 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old 
hall. My mind had become so completely 
possessed by the imaginary scenes and char- 
acters connected with it that I seemed to be 
actually living among them. Everything 
brought them as it were before my eyes, and 
as the door of the dining-room opened I almost 



388 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

expected to hear the feeble voice of Master 
Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty : 

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide!" 

On returning to my inn I could not but re. 
fleet on the singular gift of the poet, to be able 
thus to spread the magic of his mind over the 
very face of Nature, to give to things and 
places a charm and character not their own, 
and to turn this "working-day world" into a 
perfect fairy-land. He is indeed the true en- 
chanter, whose spell operates, not upon the 
senses, but upon the imagination and the 
heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakes- 
peare I had been walking all day in a complete 
delusion. I had surveyed the landscape 
through the prism of poetry, which tinged 
every object with the hues of the rainbow. I 
had been surrounded with fancied beings, 
with mere airy nothings conjured up by poetic 
power, yet which, to me, had all the charm of 
reality. I had heard Jacques soliloquize be- 
neath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind 
and her companion adventuring through the 
woodlands; and, above all had been once more 
present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his 
contemporaries, from the august Justice Shal- 
low down to the gentle Master Slender and 
the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors 
and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded 
the dull realities of life with innocent illu- 
sions, who has spread exquisite and tmbought 
pleasures in my chequered path, and beguiled 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 389 

my spirit in many a lonely hour with all the 
cordial and cheering sympathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on 
my return, I paused to contemplate the dis- 
tant church in which the poet lies buried, and 
could not but exult in the malediction which 
has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and 
hallowed vaults. What honor could his name 
have derived from being mingled in dusty 
companionship with the epitaphs and escutch- 
eons and venal eulogiums of a titled multi- 
tude? What would a crowded corner in West- 
minster Abbey have been, compared with this 
reverend pile, which seems to stand in beauti- 
ful loneliness as his sole mausoleum ! The soli- 
tude about the grave may be but the offspring 
of an over- wrought sensibility; but human 
nature is made up of foibles and prejudices, 
and its best and tenderest affections are min- 
gled with these factitious feelings. He who 
has sought renown about the world, and has 
reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, 
after all that there is no love, no admiration, 
no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which 
springs up in his native place. It is there that 
he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor 
among his kindred and his early friends. 
And when the weary heart and failing head 
begin to warn him that the evening of life is 
drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the 
infant to the mother's arms to sink to sleep in 
the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the 
youthful bard when, wandering forth in dis- 



390 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

grace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a 
heavy look upon his paternal home, could he 
have foreseen that before many years he should 
return to it covered with renown; that his 
name should become the boast and glory of 
his native place ; that his ashes should be relig- 
iously guarded as its most precious treasure ; 
and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes 
were fixed in tearful contemplation, should 
one day become the beacon towering amidst 
the gentle landscape to guide the literary pil- 
grim of every nation to his tomb ! 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 391 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 

"I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's 
cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat ; if ever he 
came cold and naked, and he clothed him not." — Speech 
of an Indian Chief. 

There is something in the character and 
habits of the North American savage, taken in 
connection with the scenery over which he is 
accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless 
forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, 
that is, to my mind, wonderfully striking and 
sublime. He is formed for the wilderness, as 
the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, 
simple, and enduring, fitted to grapple with 
difficulties and to support privations. There 
seems but little soil in his heart for the sup- 
port of the kindly virtues; and yet, if we 
would but take the trouble to penetrate 
through that proud stoicism and habitual tac- 
iturnity which look up his character from cas- 
ual observation, we should find him linked to 
his fellow-man of civilized life by more of 
those sympathies and affections than are usu- 
ally ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate abor- 
igines of America in the early periods of colo- 
nization to be doubly wronged by the white 
men. They have been dispossessed of their 
hereditary possessions by mercenary and fre- 



392 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

quently wanton warfare, and their characters 
have been traduced by bigoted and interested 
writers. The colonists often treated them like 
beasts of the forest, and the author has en- 
deavored to justify him in his outrages. The 
former found it easier to exterminate than to 
civilize; the latter to vilify than to discrimi- 
nate. The appellations of savage and pagan 
were deemed sufficient to sanction the hostil- 
ities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of 
the forest were persecuted and defamed, not 
because they were guilty, but because they 
were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been 
properly appreciated or respected by the white 
man. In peace he has too often been the dupe 
of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded 
as a ferocious animal whose life or death was a 
question of mere precaution and convenience. 
Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own 
safety is endangered and he is sheltered by 
impunity, and little mercy is to be expected 
from him when he feels the sting of the reptile 
and is conscious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged 
thus early, exist in common circulation at the 
present day. Certain learned societies have, 
it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored 
to investigate and record the real characters 
and manners of the Indian tribes; the Ameri- 
can government, too, has wisely and humanely 
exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and for- 
bearing spirit towards them and to protect 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 393 

them from fraud and injustice.* The current 
opinion of the Indian character, however, ib 
too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes 
which infest the frontiers and hang on thr 
skirts of the settlements. These are too com- 
monly composed of degenerate beings, cor- 
rupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, 
without being benefited by its civilization. 
That proud independence which formed the 
main pillar of savage virtue has been shaken 
down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. 
Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a 
sense of inferiority, and their native courage 
cowed and daunted by the superior knowledge 
and power of their enlightened neighbors. So- 
ciety has advanced upon them like one of those 
withering airs that will sometimes breed deso- 
lation over a whole region of fertility. It has 
enervated their strength, multiplied their dis- 
eases, and superinduced upon their original 
barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has 
given them a thousand superfluous wants, 
whilst it has diminished their means of mere 
existence. It has driven before it the animals 
of the chase, who fly from the sound of the 
axe and the smoke of the settlement and seek 

*The American Government has been indefatigable 
in its exertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indi- 
ans, and to introduce among them the arts of civiliza- 
tion and civil and religious knowledge. To protect 
them from the frauds of the white traders no purchase 
of land from them by individuals is permitted, nor is 
any person allowed to receive lands from them as a pres- 
ent without the express sanction of government. These 
precautions are strictly enforced. 

26 Sketch Book 



394 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet 
untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find 
the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere 
wrecks and remnants of once powerful tribes, 
who have lingered in the vicinity of the settle- 
ments and sunk into precarious and vagabond 
existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless 
poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in Sav- 
age life, corrodes their spirits and blights 
every free and noble quality of their natOTes. 
They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thiev- 
ish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like vag- 
rants about the settlements, among spacious 
dwellings replete with elaborate comforts, 
which only render them sensible of the com- 
parative wretchedness of their own condition. 
Luxury spreads its ample board before theit 
eyes, but they are excluded from the banquet. 
Plenty revels over the fields, but they are starv- 
ing in the midst of its abundance ; the whole 
wilderness has blossomed into a garden, but 
they feel as reptiles that infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the 
undisputed lords of the soil ! Their wants were 
few and the means of gratification within their 
reach. They saw every one round them shar- 
ing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, 
feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the 
same rude garments. No roof then rose but 
was open to the homeless stranger; no smoke 
curled among the trees but he was welcome to 
sit down by its fire and join the hunter in his 
repast. **For, " says an old historian of New 
England, "their life is so void of care, and they 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 395 

are so loving also, that, they make use of those 
things they enjoy as common goods, aiid are 
therein so compassionate that rather than one 
should starve through want, they would starve 
all ; thus they pass their time merrily, ' not re- 
garding our pomp, but are better content with 
their own, which some men esteem so meanly 
■of." Such were the Indians whilst in the 
pride and energy of their primitive natures; 
they resembled those wild plants which thrive 
best in the shades of the forest, but shrink 
from the hand of cultivation and perish be- 
neath the influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character writers 
have been too prone to indulge in vulgar prej- 
udice and passionate exaggeration, instead of 
the candid temper of true philosophy. They 
have not sufficiently considered the peculiar 
circumstances in which the Indians have been 
placed, and the peculiar principles under which 
they have been educated. No beings acts 
more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His 
whole conduct is regulated according to some 
general maxims early implanted in his mind. 
The moral laws that govern him are, to be 
sure, but few; but then he conforms to them 
all ; the white man abounds in laws of religion, 
morals and manners, but how many does he 
violate ! 

A frequent ground of accusation against the 
Indians is their disregard of treaties, and the 
treachery and wantonness with which, in time 
of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to 
hostilities. The intercourse of the white men 



j396 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

with the Indians, however, is too apt to be 
cold, distrustful, oppressive, and insulting. 
They seldom treat them with that confidence 
and frankness which are indispensable to real 
friendship, nor is sufficient caution observed 
not to offend against those feelings of pride or 
superstition which often prompt the Indian to 
hostility quicker than mere considerations of 
interest. The solitary savage feels silently, 
but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused 
over so wide a surface as those of the white 
man, but they run in steadier and deeper chan- 
nels. His ^pride, his affections, his supersti- 
tions, are all directed towards fewer objects, 
but the wounds inflicted on them are propor- 
tionately severe, and furnish motives of hostil- 
ity which we cannot sufficiently appreciate.- 
Where a community is also limited in number, 
and forms one great patriarchal family, as in 
an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is 
the injury of the whole, and the sentiment of 
vengeance is almost instantaneously diffused. 
One council-fire is sufficient for the discussion 
and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here 
all the fighting-men and sages assemble. Elo- 
quence and superstition combine to inflame 
the minds of the warriors. The orator awak- 
ens their martial ardor, and they are wrought 
tip to a kind of religious desperation by the 
visions of the prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasper-, 
ations, arising from a motive peculiar to the 
Indian character, is extant in an old record of 
the early settlement of Massachusetts. The 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 397 

planters of Plymouth had defaced the monn- 
ments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had 
plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother 
of some skins with which it had been decor- 
ated. The Indians are remarkable for the rev- 
erence which they entertain for the sepulchres 
of their kindred. Tribes that have passed gen- 
erations exiled from the abodes of their ances- 
tors, when by chance they have been traveling 
in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside 
from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully 
urate tradition, have crossed the country 
miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in 
woods, where the bones of their tribe were an- 
ciently deposited, and there have passed hours 
in silent meditation. Influenced by this sub- 
lime and holy feeling, the Sachem whose 
mother's tomb had been violated gathered his 
men together, and addressed them in the fol- 
lowing beautifully simple and pathetic haran- 
gue — a curious specimen of Indian eloquence 
and an affecting instance of filial piety in a 
savage : 

"When last the gloriotis light of all the sky 
was underneath this globe and birds grew 
silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, ta 
take repose. Before mine eyes were fast 
closed methought I saw a vision, at which my 
spirit was much troubled; and trembling at 
that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, 'Behold, 
my son whom I have cherished, see the breasts 
that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped 
thee warm and fed thee oft. Canst thou for- 
get to take revenge of those wild people v/ho 



398 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

liave defaced my monument in a despiteful 
manner, disdaining our antiquities and honor- 
able customs? See, now, the Sachem's grave 
lies like the common people, defaced by an 
ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain and 
implores thy aid against this thievish people 
who have newly intruded on our land. If this 
l3e suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my ever- 
lasting habitation. ' This said, the spirit van- 
ished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to 
speak, began to get some strength and recol- 
lect my spirits that were fled, and determined 
to demand your counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, 
as it tends to show how these sudden acts of 
hostility, which have been attributed to caprice 
and perfidy, may often arise from deep and 
generous motives, which our inattention to 
Indian character and customs prevents our 
properly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against 
the Indians is their barbarity to the vanquished. 
This had its origin partly in policy and partly 
in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes 
called nations, were never so formidable in 
their numbers but that the loss of several war- 
riors was sensibly felt; this was particularly 
the case when they had been frequently en- 
gaged in warfare; and many an instance 
occurs in Indian history where a tribe that 
liad long been formidable to its neighbors has 
l)een broken up and driven away by the cap- 
ture and massacre of its principal fighting- 
anen. There was a strong temptation, there- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 399 

fore, to the victor to be merciless, not so much 
to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for 
future securit}^ The Indians had also the 
superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous 
nations and prevalent also among the ancients, 
that the manes of their friends who had fallen 
in battle were soothed by the blood of the cap- 
tives. The prisoners, however, who are not 
thus sacrificed are adopted into their families 
in the place of the slain, and are treated with 
the confidence and affection of relatives and 
friends ; nay, so hospitable and tender is their 
entertainment that when the alternative is 
offered them they will often prefer to remain 
with their adopted brethren rather than return 
to the home and the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their 
prisoners has been heightened since the colo- 
nization of the whites. What was formerly a 
compliance with policy and superstition has 
been exasperated into a gratification of ven- 
geance. They cannot but be sensible that the 
white men are the usurpers of their ancient 
dominion, the cause of their degradation, and 
the gradual destroyers of their race. They go 
forth to battle smarting with injuries and 
indignities which they have individually 
suffered, and they are driven to madness and 
despair by the wide-spreading desolation and 
the overwhelming ruin of European warfare. 
The whites have too frequently set them an 
example of violence by burning their villages 
and laying waste their slender means of sub- 
sistence, and yet they wonder that savages do 



400 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

not show moderation and magnanimity towards 
those who have left them nothing- but mere 
existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly 
and treacherous, because they use stratagem 
in warfare in preference to open force ; but in 
this they are fully justified by their rude code 
of honor. They are early taught that strata- 
gem is praiseworthy; the bravest warrior 
thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take 
every advantage of his foe : he triumphs in the 
superior craft and sagacity by which he has 
been enabled to surprise and destroy an 
enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone 
to subtilty than open valor, owing to his phys- 
ical weakness in comparison with other ani- 
mals. They are endowed with natural weapons 
of defence, with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, 
and talons; but man has to depend on his 
superior sagacity. In all his encounters with 
these, his proper enemies, he resorts to strata- 
gem; and when he perversely turns his hos- 
tility against his fellow-man, he at first con- 
tinues the same subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most 
harm to our enemy with the least harm to our- 
selves; and this of course is to be effected by 
stratagem. That chivalrous courage which 
induces us to despise the suggestions of pru- 
dence and to rush in the face of certain danger 
is the offspring of society and produced by 
education. It is honorable, because it is in 
fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an 
instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 401 

yearnings after personal ease and security 
which society has condemned as ignoble. It is 
kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and 
thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the 
superior dread of an evil which exists but in 
the imagination. It has been cherished and 
stimulated also by various means. It has been 
the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous 
story. The poet and minstrel have delighted 
to shed round it the splendors of fiction, and 
even the historian has forgotten the sober 
gravity of narration and broken forth into 
enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Tri- 
umphs and gorgeous pageants have been its 
reward: monuments, on which art has ex- 
hausted its skill and opulence its treasures, 
have been erected to perpetuate a nation's 
gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially 
excited, courage has risen to an extraordinary 
and factitious degree of heroism, and, arrayed 
in all the glorious "pomp and circumstance of 
war, ' ' this turbulent quality has even been able 
to eclipse many of those quiet but invaluable 
virtues which silently ennoble the human 
character and swell the tide of human happi- 
ness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the 
defiance of danger and pain, the life of the 
Indian is. a continual exhibition of it. He 
lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. 
Peril and adventure are congenial to his 
nature, or rather seem necessary to arouse 
his faculties and to give an interest to his ex- 
istence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose 

26 



402 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, 
he is always prepared for fight and lives with 
his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers 
in fearful singleness through the solitudes of 
ocean, as the bird mingles among clouds and 
storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, 
across the pathless fields of air, so the Indian 
holds his course, silent, solitary, but un- 
daunted, through the boundless bosom of the 
wilderness. His expeditions may vie in dis- 
tance and danger with the pilgrimage of the 
devotee or the crusade of the knight-errant. 
He traverses vast forests exposed to the haz- 
ards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and 
pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great 
inland seas, are no obstacles to his wander- 
ings : in his light canoe of bark he sports like 
a feather on their waves, and darts with the 
swiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapids 
of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched 
from the midst of toil and peril. He gains 
his food by the hardships and dangers of the 
chase: he wraps himself in the spoils of the 
bear, the panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps 
among the thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can sur- 
pass the Indian in his lofty contempt of death 
and the fortitude with which he sustains his 
cruelist affliction. Indeed, we here behold 
him rising superior to the white man in con- 
sequence of his peculiar education. The latter 
rushes to glorious death at the cannon's mouth; 
the former calmly contemplates its approach, 
and triumphantly endures it amidst the varied 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 403 

torments of surrounding foes and the pro- 
tracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride 
in taunting his persecutors and provoking their 
ingenuity of torture; and as the devouring 
flames prey on his very vitals and the flesh 
shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last song 
of triuimph, breathing the defiance of an uncon- 
quered heart and invoking the spirits of his 
fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which 
the early historians have overshadowed the 
characters of the unfortunate natives, some 
bright gleams occasionally break through 
which throw a degree of melancholy lustre on 
their memories. Facts are occasionally to be 
met with in the rude annals of the eastern 
provinces which, though recorded with the 
coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak 
for themselves, and will be dwelt on with 
applause and sympathy when prejudice shall 
have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the 
Indian wars in New England there is a touch- 
ing account of the desolation carried into the 
tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity 
shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indis- 
criminate butchery. In one place we read of 
the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, 
when the wigwams were wrapped in flames and 
the miserable inhabitants shot down and slain 
in attempting to escape, *'all being despatched 
and ended in the course of an hour." After 
a series of similar transactions "our soldiers," 
as the historian piously observes, "being 



404 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

resolved by God's assistance to make a final 
destruction of them," the unhappy savages 
being hunted from their homes and fortresses 
and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty but 
gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod 
warriors, with their wives and children took 
refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation and rendered sul- 
len by despair, with hearts bursting with grief 
at the destruction of their tribe, and spirits 
galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their 
defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the 
hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death 
to submission. 

As the night grew on they ^ere surrounded 
in their dismal retreat, so as to render escape 
impracticable. Thus situated, their enemy 
"plied them with shot all the time, by which 
means many were killed and buried in the 
mire." In the darkness and fog that preceded 
the dawn of day some few broke through the 
besiegers and escaped into the v/oods; "the 
rest were left to the conquerors, of which 
many were killed in the swamp, like sullen 
dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness 
and madness, sit still and be shot through or 
cut to pieces" than implore for mercy. When 
the day broke upon this handful of forlorn 
but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, 
entering the swamp, "saw several heaps of 
them sitting close together, upon whom they 
discharged their pieces, laden with ten or 
twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting the 
muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 405 

a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that 
were found dead, many more were killed and 
sunk into the mire, and never were minded 
more by friend or foe. ' ' 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale 
without admiring the stern resolution, the 
unbending pride, the loftiness of spirit that 
seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught 
heroes and to raise them above the instinctive 
feelings of human nature? When the Gauls 
laid waste the city of Rome, they found the 
senators clothed in their robes and seated with 
stern tranquillity in their curule chairs; in 
this manner they suffered death without 
resistance or even supplication. Such conduct 
was in them applauded as noble and magnani- 
mous ; in the hapless Indian it was reviled as 
obstinate and sullen. How truly are we the 
dupes of show and circumstance ! How differ- 
ent is virtue clothed in purple and enthroned in 
state, from virtue naked and destitute and 
perishing obscurely in a wilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pic- 
tures. The eastern tribes have long since dis- 
appeared ; the forests that sheltered them have 
been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of 
them in the thickly-settled States of New Eng- 
land, excepting here and there the Indian 
name of a village or a stream. And such must, 
sooner or later, be the fate of those other 
tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occa- 
sionally been inveigled from their forests to 
mingle in the wars of white men. In a little 
while, and they will go the way that their 



406 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

brethren have gone before. The few hordes 
which still linger about the shores of Huron 
and Superior and the tributary streams of the 
Mississippi will share the fate of those tribes 
that once spread over Massachusetts and Con- 
necticut and lorded it along the proud banks 
of the Hudson, of that gigantic race said to 
have existed on the borders of the Susque- 
hanna, and of those various nations that 
flourished about the Potomac and the Rap- 
pahannock and that peopled forests of the 
vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish 
like a vapor from the face of the earth ; their 
very history will be lost in forgetfulness ; and 
them no more forever. ' ' Or if, perchance, some 
"the places that now know them will know 
dubious memorial of them should survive, it 
may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to 
people in imagination his glades and groves, 
like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of 
antiquity. But should he venture upon the 
dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness, 
should he tell how they were invaded, cor- 
rupted, despoiled, driven from their native 
abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, 
hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and 
sent down with violence and butchery to the 
grave, posterity will either turn with horror 
and incredulity from the tale or blush with 
indignation at the inhumanity of their fore- 
fathers. "We are driven back," said an old 
warrior, "until we can retreat no farther — our 
hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 407 

our fires are nearly extinguished; a little 

longer and the white man will cease to per- 
secute us, for we shall cease to exist!" 



408 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look : 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook; 
Train' d from his tree-rock 'd cradle to his bier, 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

— Campbell. 

It is to be regretted that those early writers 
who treated of the discovery and settlement 
of America have not given us more particular 
and candid accounts of the remarkable charac- 
ters that flourished in savage life. The scanty- 
anecdotes which have reached us are full of 
peculiarity and interest ; they furnish us with 
nearer glimpses of human nature, and show 
what man is in a comparatively primitive state 
and what he owes to civilization. There is 
something of the charm of discovery in light- 
ing- upon these wild and unexplored tracts of 
human nature — in witnessing, as it were, the 
native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiv- 
ing those generous and romantic qualities 
which have been artificially cultivated by- 
society vegetating in spontaneous hardihood 
and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and 
indeed almost the existence, of man depends so 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 409 

much upon the opinion of his fellow-men, he is 
constantly acting a studied part. The bold 
and peculiar traits of native character are 
refined away or softened down by the leveling 
influence of what is termed good-breeding, and 
he practices so many petty deceptions and 
affects so many generous sentiments for the 
purposes of popularity that it is difficult to dis- 
tinguish his real from his artificial character. 
The Indian, on the contrary, free from the 
restraints and refinements of polished life, and 
in a great degree a solitary and independent 
being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or 
the dictates of his judgment; and thus the 
attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, 
grow singly great and striking. Society is like 
a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, 
every bramble eradicated, and where the eye 
is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet 
surface; he, however, who would study Nature 
in its wildness and variety must plunge into 
the forest, must explore the glen, must stem 
the torrent, and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking 
through a volume of early colonial history 
wherein are recorded, with great bitterness, 
the outrages of the Indians and their wars with 
the settlers of New England. It is painful to 
perceive, even from these partial narratives, 
how the footsteps of civilization may be traced 
in the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the 
colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of 
conquest; how merciless and exterminating 
was their warfare. The imagination shrinks 



410 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

at the idea of how many intellectual beings 
were hunted from the earth, how many 
brave and noble hearts, of Nature's sterling 
coinage, were broken down and trampled in 
the dust. 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an 
Indian warrior whose name was once a terror 
throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut. 
He was the most distinguished of a number of 
contemporary sachems who reigned over the 
Pequods, the Narragansetts, the Wampanoags, 
and the other eastern tribes at the time of the 
first settlement of New England— a band of 
native untaught heroes who made the most 
generous struggle of which human nature is 
capable, fighting to the last gasp in the cause 
of their country, without a hope of victory or 
a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of 
poetry and fit subjects for local story and 
romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any 
authentic traces on the page of history, but 
stalk like gigantic shadows in the dim twilight 
of tradition.* 

When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers 
are called by their descendants, first took 
refuge on the shores of the New World from 
the religious persecutions of the Old, their 
situation was to the last degree gloomy and dis- 
heartening. Few in number, and that number 
rapidly perishing away through sickness and 

* While correcting the proof-sheets of this article the 
author is informed that a celebrated English poet has 
nearly finished an heroic poem on the story of Fhilip of 
Pokanoket. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 411 

hardships, surrounded by a howling wilderness 
and savage tribes, exposed to the rigors of an 
almost arctic winter and the vicissitudes of an 
ever-shifting climate, their minds were filled 
with doleful forebodings, and nothing pre- 
served them from sinking into despondency 
but the strong excitement of religious enthus- 
iasm. In this forlorn situation they were vis- 
ited by Massasoit chief sagamore of the Wam- 
panoags, a powerful chief who reigned over a 
great extent of country. Instead of taking 
advantage of the scanty number of the strang- 
ers and expelling them from his territories, 
into which they had intruded, he seemed at 
once to conceive for them a generous friend- 
ship, and extended towards them the rites of 
primitive hospitality. He came early in the 
spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, 
attended by a mere handful of followers, 
entered into a solemn league of peace and 
amity, sold them a portion of the soil, and 
promised to secure for them the good-will of 
his savage allies. Whatever may be said of 
Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity 
and good faith of Massasoit have never been 
impeached. He continued a firm and magnan- 
imous friend of the white men, suffering them 
to extend their possessions and to strengthen 
themselves in the land, and betraying no jeal- 
ousy of their increasing power. and prosperity. 
Shortly before his death, he came once more 
to New Plymouth with his son Alexander, foi 
the purpose of renewing the covenant of peace 
and of securing it to his posterity. 



412 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect 
the religion of his forefathers from the 
encroaching zeal of the missionaries, and stip- 
ulated that no further attempt should be made 
to draw off his people from their ancient faith; 
but, finding the English obstinately opposed 
to any such condition, he mildly relinquished 
the demand. Almost the last act of his life 
was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip 
(as they had been named by the English), to 
the residence of a principal settler recom- 
mending mutual kindness and confidence, and 
entreating that the same love and amity which 
had existed between the white men and him- 
self might be continued afterwards with his 
children. The good old sachem died in peace, 
and was happily gathered to his fathers before 
sorrow came upon his tribe; his children 
remained behind to experience the ingratitude 
of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. 
He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and 
proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights and 
dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial 
conduct of the strangers excited his indigna- 
tion, and he beheld with uneasiness their 
exterminating wars with the neighboring 
tribes. He was doomed soon to incur e their 
hostility, being accused of plotting with the 
Narragansetts to rise against the English and 
drive them from the land. It is impossible to 
say whether this accusation was warranted by 
facts or was grounded on mere suspicions. It 
is evident, however, by the violent and over- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 413 

bearing measures of the settlers that they had 
by this time begun to feel conscious of the 
rapid increase of their power, and to grow 
harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of 
the natives. They despatched an armed force 
to seize upon Alexander and to bring him 
before their courts. He was traced to his 
woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting- 
house where he was reposing with a band of 
his followers, unarmed, after the toils of the 
chase. The suddenness of his arrest and the 
outrage offered to Ijis sovereign dignity so 
preyed upon the irascible feelings of this 
proud savage as. to throw him into a raging 
fever. He was permitted to return home on 
condition of sending his son as a pledge for his 
re- appearance ; but the blow he had received 
.was fatal, and before he reached his home he 
fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. 
The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, 
or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers 
on account of his lofty spirit and ambitious 
temper. These, together with his well-known 
energy and enterprise, had rendered him an 
object of great jealousy and apprehension, and 
he was accused of having always cherished a 
secret and implacable hostility towards the 
whites. Such may very probablj^ and very 
naturally have been the case. He considered 
them as originally but mere intruders into the 
country, who had presumed upon indulgence 
and were extending an influence baneful to 
savage life. He saw the whole race of his 
countrymen melting before them from the 



414 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

face of the earth, their territories slipping from 
their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, 
scattered and dependent. It may be said that 
the soil was originally purchased by the 
settlers; but who does not know the nature of 
Indian purchases in the early periods of colo- 
nization? The Europeans always made thrifty 
bargains through their superior adroitness in 
traffic, and they gained vast accessions of ter- 
ritory by easily-provoked hostilities. An 
uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer 
into the refinements of law by which an injury 
may be gradually and legally inflicted. Lead- 
ing facts are all by which he judges; audit 
was enough for Philip to know that before the 
intrusion of the Europeans his coutrymen were 
lords of the soil, and that now they were 
becoming vagabonds in the land of their 
fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of 
general hostility and his particular indigna- 
tion at the treatment of his brother, he sup- 
pressed them for the present, renewed the con- 
tract with the settlers, and resided peaceably 
for many years at Pokanoket, or as it was 
called by the English, Mount Hope,* the 
ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspic- 
ions, however, which were at first but vague 
and indefinite, began to acquire form and sub- 
stance, and he was at length charged with 
attempting to instigate the various eastern 
tribes to rise at once, and by a simultaneous 

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 415 

effort to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. 
It is difficult at this distant period to assign 
the proper credit due to these early accusations 
against the Indians. There was a proneness 
to suspicion and an aptness to acts of violence 
on the part of the whites that gave weight and 
importance to every idle tale. Informers 
abounded where tale-bearing met with counte- 
nance and reward, and the sword was readily 
unsheathed when its success was certain and 
it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against 
Philip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a 
renegado Indian, whose natural cunning had 
been quickened by a partial education which 
he had received among the settlers. He 
changed his faith and his allegiance two or 
three times with a facility that evinced the 
looseness of his principles. He had acted for 
some time as Philip's confidential secretary 
and counselor, and had enjoyed his bounty 
and protection. Finding, however, that the 
clouds of adversity were gathering round his 
patron, he abandoned his service and went 
over to the whites, and in order to gain their 
favor charged his former benefactor with plot- 
ting against their safety. A rigorous investi- 
gation took place. Philip and several of his 
subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing 
was proved against them. The settlers, how- 
ever, had now gone too far to retract; they 
had previously determined that Philip was a 
dangerous neighbor; they had publicly evinced 
their distrust, and had done enough to insure 



416 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

his hostility ; according, therefore, to the usual 
mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruc- 
tion had become necessary to their security. 
Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was 
shortly afterwards found dead in a pond, hav- 
ing fallen a victim to the vengeance of his 
tribe. Three Indians, one of whom was a 
friend and counselor of Philip, were appre- 
hended and tried, and on the testimony of one 
very questionable witness were condemned and 
executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects and igno- 
minious punishment of his friend outraged the 
pride and exasperated the passion of Philip. 
The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet 
^wakened him to the gathering storm, and he 
determined to trust himself no longer in the 
power of the white men. The fate of his 
insulted and broken-hearted brother still rank- 
led in his mind; and he had a further warning 
in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great 
Sachem of the Narragansetts, who, after man- 
fully facing his accusers before a tribunal of 
the colonists, exculpating himself from a 
charge of conspiracy and receiving assurances 
of amity, had been perfidiously despatched at 
theitf- insti.53:ation. Philip therefore gathered 
his fighting-men about him, persuaded all 
strangers that he could to join his cause, sent 
the women and children to the Narragansetts 
for safety, and wherever he appeared was con- 
tinually surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of 
distrust and irritation, the least spark was 



TH£ sketch book. 417 

sufficient to set them in a flame. The Indians, 
having weapons in their hands, grew mischiev- 
ous and committed various petty depredations. 
In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired 
on and killed by a sfettler. This was the sig- 
nal for open hostilities; the Indians pressed to 
revenge the death of their comrade, and the 
alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth 
colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and 
melancholy times we meet with many indica- 
tions of the diseased state of the public mind. 
The gloom of religious abstraction and the 
wildness of their situation among trackless for- 
ests and savage tribes had disposed the colon- 
ists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their 
imaginations with the frightful chimeras of 
witchcraft and spectrology. They were much 
given also to a belief in omens. The troubles 
with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we 
are told, by a variety of those awful warnings 
which forerun great and public calamities. 
The perfect form of an Indian bow appeared 
in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked 
upon by the inhabitants as a "prodigious appa- 
rition. " At Hadley, Northampton, and other 
towns in their neighborhood, "was heard the 
report of a great piece of ordnance, with a 
shaking of the earth and a considerable echo. "* 
Others were alarmed on a still sunshiny morn- 
ing by the discharge of guns and muskets; 
bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the 

*The Rev. Increase Mather's "History." 
27 Sketch Book 



418 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

noise of drums resounded in the air, seemingf 
to pass away to the westward ; others fancied 
that they heard the galloping of horses over 
their heads; and certain monstrous births 
which took place about the time filled the 
superstitious in some towns with doleful fore- 
bodings. Many of these portentous sights and 
sounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena 
• — to the northern lights which occur vividly in 
those latitudes, the meteors which explode in 
the air, the casual rushing of a blast through 
the tpp branches of the forest, the crash of 
fallen trees or disrupted rocks, and to those 
other uncouth sounds and echoes which will 
sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst 
the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. 
These may have startled some melancholy im- 
aginations, may have been exaggerated by the 
love for the marvelous, and listened to with that 
avidity with which we devour whatever is fear- 
ful and mysterious. The universal currency of 
these superstitious fancies and the grave rec- 
ord made of them by one of the learned men of 
the day are strongly characteristic of the 
times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was 
such as too often distinguishes the warfare be- 
tween civilized men and savages. On the part 
of the whites it was conducted with superior 
skill and success, but with a wastefulness of 
the blood and a disregard of the natural rights 
of their antagonists; on the part of the Indi- 
ans it was waged with the desperation of men 
fearless of death, and who had nothing to ex- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 419 

pect from peace but humiliation, dependence, 
and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to ,us 
by a worthy clergyman of the time, \yho dwells 
with horror and indignation on every hostile 
act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst 
he mentions with applause the most sanguinary 
atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a 
murderer and a traitor, without considering 
that he was a true-born prince gallantly fight- 
ing at the head of his subjects to avenge the 
wrongs of his family, to retrieve the tottering 
power of his line, and to deliver his native 
land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous re- 
volt, if such had really been formed, was wor- 
thy of a capacious mind, and had it not been 
prematurely discovered might have been over- 
whelming in its consequences. The war that 
actually broke out was but a war of detail, a 
mere succession of casual exploits and uncon- 
nected enterprises. Still, it sets forth the mil- 
itary genius and daring prowess of Philip, and 
wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate 
narrations that have been given of it, we can 
arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying 
a vigorous mind, a fertility of expedients, a 
contempt of suffering and hardship, and an 
uncon<^uerable resolution that command our 
sympathy and applause. 

r Driven from his paternal domains at Mount 
Hope, he threw himself into the depths of 
those vast and trackless forests that skirted 
the settlements and were almost impervious to 



420 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

anything but a wild beast or an Indian. Here 
he gathered together his forces, like the storm 
accumulating its stores of mischief in the 
bosom of the thunder-cloud, and would sud- 
denly emerge at a time and place least ex- 
pected, carrying havoc and dismay into the vil- 
lages. There were now and then indications 
of these impending ravages that filled the 
minds of the colonists with awe and apprehen- 
sion. The report of a distant gun would per- 
haps be heard from the solitary woodland, 
where there was known to be no white man ; 
the cattle which had been wandering in the 
woods would sometimes return home wounded; 
or an Indian or two would be seen lurking about 
the skirts of the forests and suddenly disappear- 
ing, as the lightning will sometimes be seen 
playing silently about the edge of the cloud 
that is brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even sur- 
rounded by the settlers, yet Philip as often es- 
caped almost miraculously from their toils, 
and, plunging into the wilderness, would be 
lost to all search or inquiry until he again 
emerged at some far distant quarter, laying 
the couiitry desolate. Among his strongholds 
were the great swamps or morasses which ex- 
tend in some parts of New England, composed 
of loose bogs of deep black mud, perplexed 
with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shat- 
tered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, 
overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The 
uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of 
these shaggy wilds rendered them almost im- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 421 

practicable to the white man, though the In- 
dian could thread their labyrinths with the 
agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great 
swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once 
driyen with a band of his followers. The 
English did not dare to pursue him, fearing to 
venture into these dark and frightful recesses, 
where they might perish in fens and miry pits 
or be shot down by lurking foes. They, there- 
fore, invested the entrance to the Neck, and 
began to build a fort with the thought of starv- 
ing out the foe; but Philip and his warriors 
wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the 
sea in the dead of night, leaving the women 
and children behind, and escaped away to the 
westward, kindling the flames of war among 
the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck 
country and threatening the colony of Con- 
necticut. 

• In this way Philip became a theme of univer- 
sal apprehension. The mystery in which he 
was enveloped exaggerated his real terrors. 
He was an evil that walked in darkness, whose 
coming none could foresee and against which 
none knew when to be on the alert. The 
whole country abounded with rumors and 
alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of 
ubiquity, for in whatever part of the widely- 
extended frontier an irruption from the forest 
took place, Philip was said to be its leader. 
Many superstitious notions also were circulated 
concerning him. He was said to deal in nec- 
romancy, and to be attended by an old Indian 
witch or prophetess, whom he consulted and 



422 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

who assisted him by her charms and incanta- 
tions. This, indeed, was frequently the case 

. with Indian chiefs, either through their own 
credulity or to act upon that of their followers; 
and the influence of the prophet and the 
dreamer over Indian superstition has been 

* fully evidenced in recent instances of savage 

/warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape 
from Pocasset his fortunes were in a desperate 
condition. His forces had been thinned by 
repeated fights and he had lost almost the 

' whole of his resources. In this time of adver- 
sity he found a faithful friend in Canonchet, 
chief Sachem of all the Narragansetts. He 
was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great 
sachem who, as already mentioned, after an 
honorable acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, 
had been privately put to death at the perfidi- 
ous instigations of the settlers. "He was the 
heir," says the old chronicler, "of all his 
father's pride and insolence, as well as of his 
malice towards the English;" he certainly was 
the heir of his insults and injuries and the le- 
gitimate avenger of his murder. Though he 
had forborne to take an active part in this 
hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his 
broken forces with open arms and gave them 
the most generous countenance and support. 
This at once drew upon him the hostility of 
the English, and it was determined to strike a 
signal blow that should involve both the sa- 
chems in one common ruin. A great force was, 
therefore, gathered together from Massachu- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 423 

setts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and was 
sent into the Narragansett country in the depth 
of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and 
leafless, could be traversed with comparative 
facility and would no longer afford dark and 
impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had con- 
veyed the greater part of his stores, together 
with the old, the infirm, the women and chil- 
dren of his tribe, to a strong fortress where he 
and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of 
their forces. This fortress, deemed by the 
Indians impregnable, was situated upon a ris- 
ing mound or kind of island of five or six acres 
in the midst' of a swamp; it was constructed 
with a degree of judgment and skill vastly su- 
perior to what is usually displayed in Indian 
fortification', and indicative of the martial 
genius of these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegade Indian, the English 
penetrated, through December snows, to this 
stronghold and came upon the garrison by sur- 
prise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. 
The assailants were repulsed in their first at- 
tack, and several of their bravest officers were 
shot down in the act of storming the fortress, 
sword in hand. The assault was renewed with 
greater success. A lodgment was effected. 
The Indians were driven from one post to an- 
other. They disputed their ground inch by 
inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most 
of their veterans were cut to pieces, and after 
a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canon- 
chet, with a handful of surviving warriors, re- 



424 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

treated from the fort and took refuge in the 
thickets of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the 
fort ; the whole was soon in a blaze ; many of 
the old men, the women, and the children, 
perished in the flames. This last outrage 
overcame even the stoicism of the savage. 
The neighboring woods resounded with the 
yells of rage and despair uttered by the fugi- 
tive warriors, as they beheld the destruction of 
their dwellings and heard the agonizing cries 
of their wives and offspring. "The burning of 
the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, 
*'the shrieks and cries of the women and chil- 
dren, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibited 
a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it 
greatly moved some of the soldiers." The 
same writer cautiously adds, "They were in 
much doubt then, and afterwards seriously 
inquired, whether burning their enemies alive 
could be consistent with humanity, and the 
benevolent principles of the gospel."* 

The fate of the brave and generous Canon^ 
chet is worthy of particular mention; the last 
scene of his life is one of the noblest instances 
on record of Indian magnimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by 
this signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally and 
to the hapless cause which he had espoused, he 
rejected all overtures of peace offered on con- 
dition of betraying Philip and his followers, 
and declared that "he would fight it out to the 

*MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 425 

last man, rather than become a servant to the 
English." His home being destroyed, his 
country harassed and laid waste by the incur- 
sions of the conquerors, he was obliged to wan- 
der away to the banks of the Connecticut, 
where he formed a rallying-point to the whole 
body of western Indians, and laid waste sev- 
eral of the English settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazard- 
ous expedition, with only thirty chosen men, 
to penetrate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of 
Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant 
for the sustenance of his troops. This little 
band of adventurers had passed safely through 
the Pequod country, and were in the centre of 
the Narragansett, resting at some wigwams 
near Pautucket River, when an alarm was 
given of an approaching enemy. Having but 
seven men by him at the time, Canonchet de- 
spatched two of them to the top of a neighbor- 
ing hill to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic- struck by the appearance of a troop of 
English and Indians rapidly advancing, they 
fled in breathless terror past their chieftain, 
without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the 
same. He then sent two more, one of whom, 
hurrying back in confusion and affright, told 
him that the whole British army was at hand. 
Canonchet saw there was no choice but 
immediate flight. He attempted to escape 
round the hill, but was perceived and hotly 
pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of 
the fleetest of the English. Finding the swift- 

28 Sketch Book 



426 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

est purstier tlose upon his heels, he threw oi^r 
first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat ati'd' 
belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him 
to be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness 
of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his 
foot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep 
as to wet his gun. This accident so struck 
him with despair that, as he afterwards con- 
fessed, "his heart and his bowels turned 
within him, and he became like a rotten stick, 
void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved that, 
being seized by a Pequod Indian within a 
short distance of the river, he made no resist- 
ance, though a man of great vigor of body and 
boldness of heart. But on being made pris- 
oner the whole pride of his spirit arose within 
him, and from that moment we find, in the 
anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but 
repeated flashes of elevated and prince-like 
heroism. Being questioned by one of the Eng- 
lish who first came up with him, and who had 
not attained his twenty-second year, the proud- 
hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt 
upon his youthful countenance, replied, "You 
are a child — you cannot understand matters 
of war; let your brother or your chief come: 
him will I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of 
his life on condition of submitting with his 
nation to the English, yet he rejected them 
with disdain, and refused to send any proposals 
of the kind to the great body of his subjects, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 427 

saying that he knew none of them would com- 
ply. Being reproached with his breach of 
faith towards the whites, his boast that he 
would not deliver up a Wampanoag nor the 
paring of a Wampanoag's nail, and his threat 
that he would burn the English alive in their 
houses, he disdained to justify himself, 
haughtilyanswering that otherswere as forward 
for the war as himself, and '*he desired to hear 
no more thereof. ' ' 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a 
fidelity to his cause and his friends, might 
have touched the feelings of the generous and 
the brave; but Canonchet was an Indian, a 
being towards whom war had no courtesy, 
humanity no law, religion no compassion : he 
was conxlemned to die. The Isat words of his 
that are recorded are worthy the greatness of 
his soul. When sentence of death was passed 
upon him, he observed "that he liked it well, 
for he should die before his heart was soft or 
he had spoken anything unworthy of himself. " 
His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, 
for he was shot at Stoningham by three young 
Sachems of his own rank. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress and 
the death of Canonchet were fatal blows to the 
fortunes of King Philip. He made an ineffec- 
tual attempt to raise a head of war b}^ stirring 
up the Mohawks to take arms; but, though 
possessed of the native talents of a statesman, 
his arts were counteracted by the superior arts 
of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of 
their warlike skill began to subdue the resolu- 



428 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

tion of the neighboring tribes. The unfortu- 
nate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of 
power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around 
him. Some were suborned by the whites; 
others fell victims to hunger and fatigue and 
to the frequent attacks by which they were 
harassed. His stores were all captured; his 
chosen friends were swept away from before 
his e3^es ; his uncle was shot down by his side ; 
his sister was carried into captivity; and in one 
of his narrow escapes he was compelled to 
leave his beloved wife and only son to the 
mercy of the enemy. "His ruin, " says the 
historian, "being thus gradually carried on, his 
misery was not prevented, but augmented 
thereby; being himself made acquainted with 
the sense and experimental feeling of the cap- 
tivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter 
of his subjects, bereavement of all family rela- 
tions, and being stripped of all outward com- 
forts before his own life should be taken 
away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, 
his own followers began to plot against his life, 
that by sacrificing him they might purchase 
dishonorable safety. Through treachery a num- 
ber of his faithful adherents, the subjects of 
Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a 
near kinswoman and confederate of Philip 
were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. 
Wetamoe was among them at the time, and 
attempted to make her escape by crossing a 
neighboring river: either exhausted by swim- 
ming or starved with cold and hunger, she was 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 429 

found dead and naked near the water-side. 
But persecution ceased not at the grave. 
Even death, the refuge of the wretched, where 
the wicked commonly cease from troubling, 
was no protection to this outcast female, whose 
great' crime was affectionate fidelity to her 
kinsman and her friend. Her corpse was th^e 
object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance : 
the hea.d was severed from the body and set 
upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton 
to the view of her captive subjects. They 
immediately recognized the features of their 
unfortunate queen, and were so affected at this 
barbarous spectacle that we are told they 
broke forth into the "most horrid and diaboli- 
cal lamentations." 

-However Philip had borne up against the 
complicated miseries and misfortunes that sur- 
rounded him, the treachery of his followers 
seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to^ 
despondency. It is said that ' 'he never rejoiced 
afterwards, nor had success in any of his de- 
signs. '* The spring of hope was broken — the 
ardor of enterprise was extinguished ; he looked 
around, and all was danger and darkness ; there 
was no eye to pity nor any arm that could bring 
deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, 
who still remained true to his desperate for^ 
tunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to 
the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwell- 
ing of his fathers. Here he lurked about like 
a spectre among the scenes of former power 
and prosperity, now bereft of home, of fam- 
ily, and of friends. There needs no better pic- 



430 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

ture of his destitute and piteous situation than 
that furnished by the homely pen of the 
chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feel- 
ings of the reader in favor of the hapless war- 
rior whom he reviles. "Philip," he says, 
"like a savage wild beast, having been hunted 
by the English forces through the woods 
above a hundred miles backward and forward, 
at last was driven to his own den upon Mount 
Hope, where he retired with a few of his best 
friends, into a swamp, which proved but a 
prison to keep him fast till the messengers of 
death came by divine permission to execute 
vengeance upon him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and 
despair a sullen grandeur gathers round his 
memory. We picture him to ourselves 
seated among his care-worn followers, brood- 
ing in silence over his blasted fortunes, and 
acquiring a savage sublimity from the wild- 
ness and dreariness of his lurking-place. De- 
feated, but not dismayed — crushed to the 
earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow 
more haughty beneath disaster, and to experi- 
ence a fierce satisfaction in draining the last 
dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed 
and subdued by misfortunes, but great minds 
rise above it. The very idea of submission 
awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to 
death one of his followers who proposed an 
expedient of peace. The brother of the vic- 
tim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed 
the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white 
men and Indians were immediately despatched 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 431 

to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glar- 
ing with fury and despair. Before he was 
aware of their approach they had begun to sur- 
round him. In a little while he saw five of his 
trustiest followers laid dead at his feet; all 
resistance was vain ; he rushed forth from his 
covert, and made a headlong attempt toes- 
cape, but >yas shot through the heart by arene- 
gado Indian of his own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave but un- 
fortunate King Philip, persecuted while living, 
slandered and dishonored when dead. If, 
however, we consider even the prejudiced 
anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may 
perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty 
character sufficient to awaken sympathy for his 
fate and respect for his memory. We find 
that amidst all the harassing cares and fero- 
cious passions of constant warfare he was alive 
to the softer feelings of connubial love and 
paternal tenderness and to the generous senti- 
ment of friendship. The captivity of his 
* 'beloved wife and only son" are mentioned 
with exultation as causing him poignant mis- 
ery: the death of any new friend is triumph- 
antly recorded as a new blow on his sensibil- 
ities ; but the treachery and desertion of many 
of his followers, in whose affections he had 
confided, is said to have desolated his heart 
and to have bereaved him of all further comfort. 
He was a patriot attached to his native soil — a 
prince true to his subjects and indignant of 
their wrongs — a soldier daring in battle, firm 
in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of 



432 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to 
perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud 
of heart and with an untamable love of natu- 
ral liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the 
beasts of the forests or in the dismal and fam- 
ished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather 
than bow his haughty spirit to submission and 
live dependent and despised in the ease and 
luxury of the settlements. With heroic quali- 
ties and bold achievements that would have 
graced a civilized warrior, and have rendered 
him the theme of the poet and the historian, 
he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his 
native land, and went down, like a lonely bark 
foundering amid darkness and tempest, with- 
out a pitying eye to weep his fall or a friendly 
hand to record his struggle. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 433 



JOHN BULL. 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate. 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 

With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by 

his looks. 
With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks. 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-ardozen old 

cooks. 

Like an old courtier, etc. — Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the 
English more excel than that which consists 
in caricaturing and giving ludicrous appella- 
tions or nick-names. In this way they have 
whimsically designated, not merely individu- 
als, but nations, and in their fondness for push- 
ing a joke they have not spared even them- 
selves. One would think that in personifying- 
itself a nation would be apt to picture some- 
thing grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is 
characteristic of the peculiar humor of the 
English, and of their love for what is blunt, 
comic, and familiar, that they have embodied 
their national oddities in the figure of a 
• sturdy, corpulent old fellow with a three-cor- 
nered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and. 
stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a 



434 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

singular delight in exhibiting their most pri- 
vate foibles in a laughable point of view, and , 
have been so successful in their delineations • 
that there is scarcely a being in actual exist- • 
ence more absolutely present to the public '. 
mind than that eccentric personag.e, John Bull. 
Perhaps the continual contemplation of the 
character thus drawn of them has contributed 
to fix it upon the nation, and thus to give 
reality to what at first may have been painted 
in a great measure from the imagination. 
Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are 
continually ascribed to them. The common 
orders of English seem wonderfully captivated 
with the beau ideal which they have formed of 
John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the 
broad caricature that is perpetually before 
their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make 
their boasted Bullism an apology for their 
prejudice or grossness; and this I have espe- 
cially noticed among those truly homebred and 
genuine sons of the soil who have never 
migrated beyond the sound of Bow bells. If 
one of these should be a little uncouth in 
speech and apt to utter impertinent truths, he 
. confesses that he is a real John Bull and 
always speaks his mind. If he now and then 
flies into an unreasonable burst of passion 
about trifles, he observes that John Bull is a 
choleric old blade, but then his passion is over 
in a moment and he bears no m.alice. If he 
betrays a coarseness of taste and an insensibil- 
ity to foreign refinements, he thanks Heaven 
for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull and 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 435 

has no relish for frippery and knick-knacks. 
His very proneness to be gulled by strangers 
and to pay extravagantly for absurdities is ex- 
cused under the plea of munificence, for John 
is always more generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull he will 
contrive to argue every fault into a merit, and 
will frankly convict himself of being the 
honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character 
may have suited in the first instance, it lias 
gradually adapted itself to the nation, or 
rather they have adapted themselves to each 
other; and a stranger who wishes to study 
English peculiarities may gather much valu- 
able information from the innumerable por- 
traits of John Bull as exhibited in the windows 
of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is 
one of those fertile humorists that are continu- 
ally throwing out new portraits and presenting 
different aspects from different points of 
viievv ; and, often as he has been described, I 
.pannot resist the temptation to give a slight 
;' sketch of him such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, 
downright, matter-of-fact fellow, with much 
less of poetry about him than rich prose. 
There is little of romance in his nature, but a 
vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels 
in humor more than in wit; is jolly rather 
than ga}^; melancholy rather than morose ; can 
easily be moved to a sudden tear or surprised 
into a broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment 
and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a 



436 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

boon companion, if you allow him to have his 
humor and to talk about himself; and he will 
stand by a friend in a quarrel with life and 
purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled. 
In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has 
a propensity to be somewhat too ready. He 
is a busy-minded personage, who thinks not 
merely for himself and family, but for all the 
country round, and is most generously dis- 
posed to be everybody's champion. He is con- 
tinually volunteering his services to settle his 
neighbor's affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon 
if they engage in any matter of consequence 
without asking his advice, though he seldom 
engages in any friendly office of the kind with- 
out finishing by getting into a squabble with 
all parties, and then railing bitterly at their 
ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons in his 
youth in the noble science of defence, and hav- 
ing accomplished himself in the use of his 
limbs and his weapons and become a perfect 
master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a 
troublesome life of it ever since. He cannot 
hear of a quarrel between the most distant of 
his neighbors but he begins incontinently to 
fumble with the head of his cudgel, and con- 
sider whether his interest or honor does not 
require that he should meddle in the broil. 
Indeed, he has extended his relations of pride 
and policy so completely over the whole 
country that no event can take place without 
infringing some of his finely-spun rights and 
dignities. Couched in his little domain, with 
these filaments stretching forth in every direc- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 437 

tion, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old 
spider who has woven his web over a whole 
chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz nor a breeze 
blow without startling his repose and causing , 
him to sally forth wrathfully from his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tem- 
pered old fellow at bottom, yet he is singularly 
fond of being in the midst of contention. It 
is one of his peculiarities, however, that he 
only relishes the beginning of an affray; he 
always goes into a fight with alacrity, but 
comes out of it grumbling even when victori- 
ous;, and though no one fights with more ob- 
stinacy to carry a contested point, yet when 
the battle is over and he comes to the recon- 
ciliation he is so much taken up with the mere 
shaking of hands that he is apt to let his 
antagonist pocket all that they have been 
quarreling about. It is not, therefore, fight- 
ing that he ought so much to be on his guard 
against as making friends. It is dififtcult to, 
cudgel him out of a farthing; but put him in 
a good humor and you may bargain him out 
of all the money in his pocket. He is like a 
stout ship which will weather the roughest 
storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard 
in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifieo 
abroad, of pulling out a long purse, flinging 
his money bravely about at boxing-matches, 
horse-races, cock-fights, and carrying a high 
head among "gentlemen of the fancy:" but 
immediately ^after one of these fits of extrava- 
gance he will be taken with violent qualms of 



438 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

economy; stop short at the most trivial ex- 
penditure; talk desperately of being ruined 
and brought upon the parish; and in such 
moods will not pay the smallest tradesman's 
bill without violent altercation. He is, in 
fact, the most punctual and discontented pay- 
master in the world, drawing his coin out of 
his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance, 
paying to the uttermost farthing, but accom- 
panying every guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is 
a bountiful provider and a hospitable house- 
keeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind, 
its chief object being to devise how he may 
afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge 
himself a beefsteak and pint of port one day 
that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogs- 
head of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the 
next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously 
expensive, not so much from an}^ great outv/ard 
parade as from the great consumption of solid 
beef and pudding, the vast number of follow- 
ers he feeds and clothes, and his singular dis- 
position to pay hugely for small services. He 
is a most kind and indulgent master, and, pro- 
vided his servants humor his peculiarities, 
flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do 
not peculate grossly on him before his face 
they may manage him to perfection. Every- 
thing that lives on him seems to thrive and 
grow fat. His house-servants are well paid 
and pampered and have little to do. His 
horses are sleek and lazy and prance slowly 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 439 

before his state carriage ; and his house-dogs 
sleep quietly about the door and will hardly 
bark at a housebreaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated 
manor-house, gray with age, and of a most 
venerable though weather-beaten appearance. 
It has been built upon no regular plan, but it 
a vast accumulation of parts erected in various 
tastes and ages. The centre bears evident 
traces of Saxon architecture, and is as solid as 
ponderous stone and old English oak can make 
it. Like all the relics of that style, it is full of 
obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusty 
chambers, and^ though these have been par- 
tially lighted up in modern days, yet there are 
many places where you must still grope in the 
dark Additions have been made to the orig- 
inal edifice from time to time, and great alter- 
ations have taken place; towers and battle- 
ments have been erected during wars and 
tumults ; wings built in time of peace ; and out- 
houses, lodges, and offices run up according to 
the whim or convenience of different genera- 
tions, until it has become one of the most spa- 
cious, rambling tenements imaginable. An 
entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, 
a reverend pile that must have been exceed- 
ingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of hav- 
ing been altered and simplified at various 
periods, has still a look of solemn religious 
pomp. Its walls within are storied with the 
monuments of John's ancestors, and it is snugly 
fitted up with soft cushions and well-lined 
chairs, where such of his family as are inclined 



440 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

to church services may doze comfortably in the-- 
discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John muck; 
money ; but he is staunch in his religion and 
piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that' 
many dissenting chapels have been erected in 
his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with; 
whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists.. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, : 
at a large expense, a pious and portly family 
chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous.; 
personage and a truly well-bredc.Christian, who, 
always backs the old gentleman in his opin-/! 
ions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes/ ; 
rebukes the children when refractory, and fs: 
of great use in exhorting the tenants to readri 
their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all^b 
to pay their rents punctually and withoutri 
grumbling. ■ Hs 

The family apartments are in a very antiTfi 
quated taste, somewhat heavy and often inconrri 
venient, but full of the solemn magnificence ofd 
former times, fitted up with rich though faded; : 
tapestry, unwieldly furniture, and loads of 
massy, gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, • 
ample kitchens, extensive cellar^, and sumptu- 
ous banqueting-halls all speak of the roaring 
hospitality of days of yore, of which the mod- 
ern festivity at the manor-house is but a^ 
shadow. There are, however, complete suites-- 
of rooms apparently deserted and time-worn, 
and towers and turrets that are tottering to 
decay, so that in high winds there is danger of 
their tumbling about the ears of the household. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 441 

, John has frequently been advised to have 
the old edifice thoroughly overhauled, and to 
have some of the useless parts pulled down, 
and the others strengthened with their mate- 
rials ; but the old gentleman always grows testy 
on this subject. He swears the house is an 
excellent house ; that it is tight and weather- 
proof, and not to be shaken by tempests; that 
it has stood for several hundred years, and 
therefore is not likely to tumble down now ; 
that as to its being inconvenient, his family is 
accustomed to the inconveniences and would 
not be comfortable without them ; that as to 
its unwieldly size and irregular construction, 
these result from its being the growth of cen- 
turies and being improved by the wisdom of 
every generation ; that an old family, like his, 
.requires a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart 
families may live in modern cottages and snug 
boxes; but an old English family should inhabit 
an old English manor-house. If you point out 
any part of the building as superfluous, he 
insists that it is material to the strength or 
decoration of the rest and the harmony of the 
whole, and swears that the parts are so built 
into each other that if you pull down one, you 
run the risk of having the whole about your 
ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a 
great disposition to protect and patronize. He 
thinks it indispensable to the dignity of an 
ancient and honorable family to be bounteous 
in its appointments and to be eaten up by 
dependents; and so, partly from pride and 



442 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

partly from kind-heartedness, he makes it a 
rule always to give shelter and maintenance to 
his superannuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other ' 
venerable family establishments, his manor is , 
incumbered by old retainers whom he cannot 
turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay 
down. His mansion is like a great hospital of 
invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a 
whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook 
or corner but is of use in housing some useless 
personage. Groups of veteran beef-eaters, 
gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the 
buttery and the larder are seen lolling about its 
walls, crawling over its lawms, dozing under 
its trees, or sunning themselves upon the 
benches at its doors. Every office and out^ 
house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries 
and their families ; for they are amazingly pro- 
lific, and when they die off are sure to leave 
John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided 
for. A mattock cannot be struck against the 
most mouldering tumble-down tower but out 
pops, from some cranny or loop-hole, the gray- 
pate of some superannuated hanger-on, whd 
has lived at John's expense all his life, and 
makes the most grievous outcry at their pull- 
ing down the roof from over the head of a 
worn-out servant of the family. This is an 
appeal that John's honest heart never can 
withstand; so that a man who has faithfully 
eaten his beef and pudding all his life is sure 
to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in his 
old days. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 443 

A great part of his park also is turned into 
paddocks, where his broken-down chargers are 
turned loose to graze undisturbed for the 
remainder of their existence — a worthy 
example of grateful recollection which, if 
some of his neighbors were to imitate, would 
not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of 
his great pleasures to point out these old 
steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good 
qualities, extol their past services, and boast, 
with some little vain-glory, of the perilous 
adventures and hardy exploits through which 
they have carried him. 'i^' 

He is given, however, to indulge his venera- 
tion for family usages and family incumbrances 
to a whimsical extent. His manor is infested 
by gangs of gypsies ; yet he will not suffer them 
to be driven off, because they have infested 
the place time out of mind and been regular 
poachers upon every generation of the family. 
He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be 
lopped from the great trees that surround the 
house, lest it should molest the rooks that have 
bred there for centuries. Owls have taken 
possession of the dovecote, but they are hered- 
itary owls and must not be disturbed. Swal- 
lows have nearly choked up every chimney 
with their nests; martins build in every frieze 
and cornice; crows flutter about the towers 
and perch on every weather-cock ; and old gray- 
headed rats may be seen in every quarter of 
the house, running in and out of their holes 
undauntedly in broad daylight. In short, 
John has such a reverence for everything that 



444 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

has been long in the family that he will not 
hear even of abuses being reformed, because 
they are good old family abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred 
woefully to drain the old gentleman's purse; 
and as he prides himself on punctuality in 
money matters and wishes to maintain his 
credit in the neighborhood, they have caused 
him great perplexity in meeting his engage- 
ments. This, too, has been increased by the 
altercations and heart-burnings which are 
continually taking place in his family. His 
children have been brought up to different 
callings and are of different ways of thinking; 
and as they have always been allowed to speak 
their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise 
the privilege most clamorously in the present 
posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the 
honor of the race, and are clear that the old 
establishment should be kept up in all its state, 
whatever may be the cost; others, who are 
more prudent and considerate, entreat the old 
gentleman to retrench his expenses and to put 
his whole system of housekeeping on a more 
moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, 
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but 
their wholesome advice has been completely 
defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of 
his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, 
of rather low habits, who neglects his busi- 
ness to frequent ale-houses — is the orator of 
village clubs and a complete oracle among the 
poorest of his father's tenants. No sooner 
does he hear any of his brothers mention 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 445 

reform or retrenchment than up he jumps, 
takes the words out of their mouths, and roars 
out for an overturn. When his tongue is once 
going nothing can stop it. He rants about the 
room ; hectors the old man about his spend- 
thrift practices; ridicules his tastes and pur- 
suits ; insists that he shall turn the old serv- 
ants out of doors, give the broken-down horses 
to the hounds, send the fat chaplain packing, 
and take a field-preacher in his place; nay, 
that the whole family mansion shall be leveled 
with the ground, and a plain one of brick and 
mortar built in its place. He rails at every 
'social entertainment and family festivity, and 
skulks away growling to the ale-house when- 
ever an equipage drives up to the door. 
Though constantly coniplaining of the empti- 
ness of his purse, yet h6 scruples not to spend 
all his pocket-money in these tavern convoca- 
tions, and even runs up scores for the liquor 
over which he preaches about his father's 
extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such 
thwarting agrees with the old cavalier's fiery 
temperament. He has become so irritable from 
repeated crossings that the mere mention of 
retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl 
between him and the tavern oracle. As the 
latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal 
discipline, having grown out of all fear of the 
cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy 
warfare, which at times runs so high that John 
is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an 
officer who has served abroad, but is at present 



446 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

living at home on half-pay. This last is sure 
to stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong, 
likes nothing so much as a racketing, roistering 
life, and is ready at a wink or nod to out-sabre ' 
and flourish it over the orator's head if he 
dares to array himself against parental au- 
thority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got 
abroad, and are rare food for scandal in John's 
neighborhood. People begin to look wise and 
shake their heads whenever his affairs are 
mentioned. They all "hope that matters are 
not so bad with him as represented ; but wheij. 
a man's own children begin to rail at his extrav- 
agance, things must be badly managed. They 
understand he is mortgaged over head ^nd 
ears and is continually dabbling with money- 
lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old 
gentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast; 
indeed, they never knew any good come of this 
fondness for hunting, racing, reveling, and 
prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is 
a very fine one and has been in the family a 
long while, but, for all that, they have known 
many finer estates come to the hammer. " 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these 
pecuniary embarrassments and domestic feuds 
have had on the poor man himself. Instead of 
that jolly round corporation and smug rosy face 
which he used to present, he has of late become 
as shriveled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. 
His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied 
out so bravely in those prosperous days when 
he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 447 

about him like' a mainsail in a 'calm. His 
leather breecties are all in folds and wrinkles, 
and apparently have much ado to hold up the 
boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy 
legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly with 
his three-cornered hat on one side, flourishing 
his cudgel, and bringing it down every moment 
with a heart}^ thump upon the ground, looking 
every one stul*dily in the face, and trolling out 
a stave of a catch or a drinking-song, he now 
-'-goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, 
with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked 
under his arm, and his hands thrust to the 
bottom of his breeches pockets, which are evi- 
dently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at 
present, yet for all this the old fellow's spirit 
is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop 
the least expression of sympathy or concern, 
he takes fire in an instant; swears that he is 
the richest and stoutest fellow in the country ; 
talks of laying out large sums to adorn his 
house or buy another estate ; and with a valiant 
swagger and grasping of his cudgel longs 
exceedingly to have another bout at quarter- 
staff. 

Though there may be something rather 
whimsical in all this, yet I confess I cannot 
look upon John's situation without strong feel- 
ings of interest. With all his odd humors and 
obstinate prejudices he is a sterling-hearted old 
blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a 
fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least 



448 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

twice as good as his neighbors represent him. 
His virtues are all his own — all plain, home- 
bred, and unaffected. His very faults smack 
of the raciness of his good qualities. His 
extravagance savors of his generosity, his quar- 
relsomeness of his courage, his credulity of his 
open faith, his vanity of his pride, and his 
bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the 
redundancies of a rich and liberal character. He 
is like his own oak, rough without, but sound 
and solid within; whose bark abounds with 
excrescences in proportion to the growth and 
grandeur of the timber; and whose branches 
make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the 
least storm from their very magnitude and lux- 
uriance. There is something, too, in the 
appearance of his old family mansion that is 
extremely poetical and picturesque; and as 
long as it can be rendered comfortably habit- 
able I should almost tremble to see it meddled 
with during the present conflict of tastes and 
opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt 
good architects that might be of service ; but 
many, I fear, are mere levelers, who, when 
they had once got to work with their mattocks 
on this venerable edifice, would never stop 
until they had brought it to the ground, and 
perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. 
All that I wish is, that John's present troubles 
may teach him more prudence in future — that 
he may cease to distress his mind about other 
people's affairs; that he may give up the fruit- 
less attempt to promote the good of his neigh- 
bors and the peace and happiness of the worldy 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 449 

by dint of the cudgel; that he may remain 
quietly at home; gradually get his house into 
repair; cultivate his rich estate according to 
his fancy; husband his income — if he thinks 
proper ; bring his unruly children into order — 
if he can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient 
prosperity; and long enjoy on his paternal 
lands a green, an honorable, and a merry old 
age. 



29 Sketch Book 



450 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 

May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring. 
Love kept it ever flourishing. 

— Herrick. 

In the course of an excursion through one of 
the remote counties of England, I had struck 
into one of those cross-roads that lead through 
the more secluded parts of the country, and 
stopped one afternoon at a village the situation 
of which was beautifully rural and retired. 
There was an air of primitive simplicity about 
its inhabitants not to be found in the villages 
which lie on the great coach-roads. I deter- 
mined to pass the night there, and, having taken 
an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neigh- 
boring scenery. 

My ramble, as it usually the case with travel- 
lers, soon led me to the church, which stood at 
a little distance from the village. Indeed, it 
was an object of some curiosity, its old tower 
being completely overrun with ivy, so that only 
here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of 
gray wall, or a fantastically carved ornament 
peered through the verdant covering. It was 
a lovely evening. The early part of the day 



THE SKETCH BOOK.' 451 

had been dark and showery, but in the after- 
noon it had cleared up, and, though sullen 
clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a 
broad tract of golden sky in the west, from 
,which the setting sun gleamed through the 
dripping leaves and lit up all Nature into a 
melancholy smile. It seemed likQ the parting 
hour of a good Christian smiling on the sins 
and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the 
serenity of his decline, an assurance that he 
will rise again in glory. 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tomb- 
stone, and was musing, as one is apt to do at 
this sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes and 
early friends — on those who were distant and 
those who were dead — and indulging in that 
kind of melancholy fancying which has in it 
something sweeter even than pleasure. Every 
now and then the stroke of a bell from the 
neighboring tower fell on my ear; its tones 
were in unison with the scene, and, instead of 
jarring, chimed in with my feelings; and it 
was some time before I recollected that it must 
be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the 
tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across 
the village green : it wound slowly along a 
lane, was lost, and reappeared through the 
breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place 
vwhere I was sitting. The pall was supported 
'X)y young girls dressed in white, and another, 
about the age of seventeen, walked before, 
bearing a chaplet of white flowers — a token 
that the deceased was a young and unmarried 



452 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

female. The corpse was followed by the par- 
ents. They were a venerable couple of the 
better order of peasantry. The father seemed 
to repress his feelings, but his fixed eye, con- 
tracted brow, and deeply-furrowed face showed 
the struggle that was passing within. His 
wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with 
the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The 
bier was placed in the centre aisle, an the 
chaplet^of white flowers, with a pair of white 
gloves, was hung over the seat which the 
deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of 
the funeral service, for who is so fortunate as 
never to have followed some one he has loved 
to the tomb? But when performed over the 
remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low 
in the bloom of existence, what can be more 
affecting? At that simple but most solemn 
consignment of the body to the grave — "Earth 
to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" — the 
tears of the youthful companions of the 
deceased flowed unrestrained. The father still 
seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to 
comfort himself with the assurance that the 
dead are blessed which die in the Lord; but 
the mother only thought of her child as a 
flower of the field cut down and withered in the 
midst of its sweetness ; she was like Rachel, 
"mourning over her children, and would not 
be comforted." 

On returning to the inn I learnt the whole 
story of the deceased. It was a simple one, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 453 

and such as has often been told. She had been 
the beauty and pride of the village. Her 
father had once been an opulent farmer, but 
was reduced in circumstances. This was an 
only child, and brought up entirely at home 
in the simplicity of rural life. She had been 
the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite 
lamb of his little flock. The good man watched 
over her education with paternal care ; it was 
limited and suitable to the sphere in which she 
was to move, for he only sought to make her 
an ornament to her station in life, not to raise 
her above it. The tenderness and indulgence 
of her parents and the exemption from all 
ordinary occupations had fostered a natural 
grace and delicacy of character that accorded 
with the fragile loveliness of her form. She 
appeared like some tender plant of the garden 
blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives 
of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and 
acknowledged by her companions, but without 
envy, for it was surpassed by the unassuming 
gentleness and winning kindness of her man- 
ners. It might be truly said of her : 

"This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems 
But smacks of something greater than herself ; 
Too noble for this place. " 

The village was one of those sequestered 
spots which still retain some vestiges of old 
English customs. It had its rural festivals 
and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some 



454 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

' faint observance of the once popular rites of 
May. These, indeed, had been promoted by 
its present pastor, who was a lover of old cus- 
toms and one of those simple Christians that 
think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy 
on earth and good- will among mankind. 
Under his auspices the May-pole stood from 
year to year in the centre of the village green ; 
on May-day it was decorated with garlands and 
streamers, and a qiieen or lady of the May was 
appointed, as in former times, to preside at the 
sports and distribute the prizes and rewards. 
The picturesque situation of the village and the 
fancifulness of its rustic fetes would often 
attract the notice of casual visitors. Among 
these, on one May-day, was a young officer 
whose regiment had been recently quartered 
in the neighborhood. He was charmed with 
the native taste that pervaded this village 
pageant, but, above all, with the dawning love- 
liness of the queen of May. It was the village 
favorite who was crowned with flowers, and 
blushing and smiling in all the beautiful con- 
fusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The 
artiessness of rural habits enabled him I'eadily 
to make her acquaintance ; he gradually won 
his way into her intimacy, and paid his court, to 
her in that unthinking way in which young 
officers are too apt to trifle with rustic sim- 
plicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle 
or alarm. He never even talked of love, but 
there are modes of making it more eloquent 
than language, and which convey it subtilely 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 455 

and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the 
eye, the tone of voice, the thousand tender- 
nesses which emanate from every word and 
look arid action, — these form the true elo- 
quence of love, and can always be felt and 
understood, but never described. Can we 
wonder that they should readily win a heart 
young, guileless, and susceptible? As to her, 
she loved almost unconsciously ; she scarcely 
inquired what was the growing passion that 
was absorbing every thought and feeling, or 
what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, 
looked not to the future. When present, his 
looks and words occupied her whole attention ; 
when absent, she thought but of what had 
passed at their recent interview. She would 
wander with him through the green lanes and 
rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her 
to see new beauties in Nature ; he talked in 
the language of polite and cultivated life, and 
breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance 
and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion 
between the sexes more pure than this inno- 
cent girl's. The gallant figure of her youthful 
admirer and the splendor of his military attire 
might at first have charmed her eye, but it was 
not these that had captivated her heart. Her 
attachment had something in it of idolatry. 
She looked up to him as to a being of a supe- 
rior order. She felt in his society the enthu- 
siasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, 
and now first awakened to a keen perception 
of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid 



456 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

distinctions of rank and fortune she thought 
nothing ; it was the difference of intellect, of 
demeanor, of manners, from those of the 
rustic society to which she had been accus- 
tomed, that elevated him in her opinion. She 
would listen to him with charmed ear and 
downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek 
would mantle with enthusiasm ; or if ever she 
ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, it 
was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh 
and blush at the idea of her comparative un- 
worthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned, but his 
passion was mingled with feelings of a coarser 
nature. He had begun the connection in 
levity, for he had often heard his brother- 
officers boast of their village conquests, and 
thought some triumph of the kind necessary to 
his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was 
too full of youthful fervor. His heart had 
not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and 
selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life; it 
caught fire from the very flame it sought to 
kindle, and before he was aware of the nature 
of his situation he became really in love. 

What was he to do? There were the old 
obstacles which so incessantly occur in these 
heedless attachments. His rank in life, the 
prejudices of titled connections, his depend- 
ence upon a proud and unyielding father, all 
forbade him to think of matrimony ; but when 
he looked down upon tnis innocent being, so 
tender and confiding, there was a purity in her 
manners, a blamelessness in her life, and a 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 457 

beseeching modesty in her looks that awed 
down every licentious feeling In vain did he 
try to fortify himself by a thousand heartless 
examples of men of fashion, and to chill the 
glow of generous sentiment with that cold 
derisive levity with which he had heard them 
talk of female virtue : whenever he came into 
her presence she was still surrounded by that 
mysterious but impassive charm of virgin 
purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty 
thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regi- 
ment to repair to the Continent completed the 
confusion of his mind. He remained for a 
short time in a state of the most painful 
irresolution; he hesitated to communicate the 
tidings until the day for marching was at 
hand, when he gave her the intelligence in 
the course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before oc- 
curred to her. It broke in at once upon her 
dream of felicity; she looked upon it as a 
sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept 
with the guileless simplicity of a child. He 
drew her to his bosom and kissed the tears 
from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet with a 
repulse, for there are moments of mingled 
sorrow and tenderness which , hallow the 
caresses of affection. He was naturally impet- 
uous, and the sight of beauty apparently yield- 
ing in his arms, the confidence of his power 
over her, and the dread of losing her forever 
all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings : 
he ventured to propose that she should leave 

80 Sketch Book 



458 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

her home and be the companion of his for- 
tunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and 
blushed and faltered at his own baseness ; 
but so innocent of mind was his intended 
victim that she was at first at a loss to com- 
prehend his meaning, and why she should 
leave her native village and the humble roof 
of her parents. When at last the nature of his 
proposal flashed upon her pure mind, the 
effect was withering. She did not weep; she 
did not break forth into reproach ; she said not 
a word, but she shrunk back aghast as from a 
viper, gave him a look of anguish that pierced 
to his very soul, and, clasping her hands in 
agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's 
cottage. 

The officer retired confounded, humiliated, 
and repentant. It is uncertain what might 
have been the result of the conflict of his feel- 
ings, had not his thoughts been diverted by 
the bustle of departure. New scenes, new 
pleasures, and new companions soon dissipated 
his self-reproach and stifled his tenderness; 
yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of 
garrisons, the array of armies, and even the 
din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes 
steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and vil- 
lage simplicity — the white cottage, the footpath 
along the silver brook and up the hawthorn 
hedge, and the little village maid loitering 
along it, leaning on his arm and listening to 
him with eyes beaming with unconscious affec- 
tion. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 459 

The shock which the poor girl had received 
in the destruction of all her ideal world had 
indeed been cruel. Paintings and hysterics 
had at first shaken her tender frame, and were 
succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. 
She had beheld from her window the march of 
the departing troops. She had seen her faith- 
less lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst 
the sound of drum and trumpet and the pomp 
of arms. She strained a last aching gaze after 
him as the morning sun glittered about his 
figure and his plume waved in the breeze ; he 
passed away like a bright vision from her sight, 
and left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particu- 
lars of her after-story. It was, like other tales 
of love, melancholy. She avoided society and 
wandered out alone in the walks she had most 
frequented with her lover. She sought, like 
the stricken deer, to weep in silence and lone- 
liness and brood over the barbed sorrow that 
rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be, 
seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of 
the village church, and the milkmaids, return- 
ing from the fields, would now and then over- 
hear her singing some plaintive ditty in the 
hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her 
devotions at church, and as the old people saw 
her approach, so wasted away, yet with a 
hectic gloom and that hallowed air which mel- 
ancholy diffuses round the form, they would 
make way for her as for something spiritual, 
and looking after her, would shake their heads 
in gloomy foreboding. 



460 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening 
to the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place 
of rest. The silver cord that had bound her to 
existence was loosed, and there seemed to be 
no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her 
gentle bosom had entertained resentment 
against her lover, it was extinguished. She 
was incapable of angry passions, and in a 
moment of saddened tenderness she penned 
him a farewell letter. It was couched in the 
simplest language, but touching from its very 
simplicity. She told him that she was dying, 
and did not conceal from him that his conduct 
was the cause. She even depicted the suffer- 
ings which she had experienced, but concluded 
with saying that she could not die in peace 
until she had sent him her forgiveness and her 
blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined that she 
could no longer leave the cottage. She could 
only totter to the window, where, propped up 
in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all 
day and look out upon the landscape. Still 
she uttered no complaint nor imparted to any 
one the malady that was preying on her heart. 
She never even mentioned her lover's name, 
but would lay her head on her mother's bosom 
and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung 
in mute anxiety over this fading blossom of 
their hopes, still flattering themselves that it 
might again revive to freshness and that the 
bright unearthly bloom which sometimes 
flushed her cheek might be the promise of 
returning health. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 461 

In this way she was seated between them one 
Sunday afternoon; her hands were clasped in 
theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft 
air that stole in brought with it the fragrance 
of the clustering honeysuckle which her own 
hands had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter 
in the Bible ; it spoke of the vanity of worldly 
things and of the joys of heaven ; it seemed to 
have diffused comfort and serenity through her 
bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant vil- 
lage church ; the bell had tolled for the even- 
ing service ; the last villager was lagging into 
the porch, and everything had sunk into that 
hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. 
Her parents were gazing on her with yearning 
hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so 
roughly over some faces, had given to hers the 
expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in 
her soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her 
faithless lover? or were her thoughts wandering 
to that distant churchyard, into whose bosom 
she might soon be gathered? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard; a 
horseman galloped to the cottage; he dis- 
mounted before the window; the poor girl 
gave a faint exclamation and sunk back in her 
chair ; it was her repentant lover. He rushed 
into the house and flew to clasp her to his bos- 
om ; but her wasted form, her deathlike coun- 
tenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation 
— smote him to the soul, and he threw himself 
in agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise ; 
she attempted to extend her trembling hand — 



462 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was 
articulated; she looked down upon him with a 
smile of unutterable tenderness, and closed her 
eyes forever. 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of 
this village story. They are but scanty, and I 
am conscious have little novelty to recommend 
them. In the present rage also for strange in- 
cident and high-seasoned narrative they may 
appear trite and insignificant, but they inter- 
ested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in 
connection with the affecting ceremony which 
I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression 
on my mind than many circumstances of a 
more striking nature. I have passed through 
the place since, and visited the church again 
from a better motive than mere curiosity. It 
was a wintry evening; the trees were stripped 
of their foliage, the churchyard looked naked 
and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly 
through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, 
had been planted about the grave of the vil- 
lage favorite, and osiers were bent over it to 
keep the turf uninjured. 

The church-door was open and I stepped in. 
There hung the chaplet of flowers and the 
gloves, as on the day of the funeral ; the flow- 
ers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to 
have been taken that no dust should soil their 
Vv^hiteness. I have seen many monuments 
where art has exhausted its powers to awaken 
the S3aiipathy of the spectator, but I have met 
with none that spoke more touchingly to my 
heart than this simple but delicate memento of 
departed innocence. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 463 



THE ANGLER. 

This day Dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie. 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

—Sir H. Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is in- 
duced to run away from his family and betake 
himself to a seafaring life from reading the his- 
tory of Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in 
like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen 
who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral 
streams with angle-rods in hand may trace the 
origin of their passion to the seductive pages 
of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying 
his "Complete Angler" several years since in 
company with a knot of friends in America, 
and, moreover, that we were all completely 
bitten with the angling mania. It was early 
in the year, but as soon as the weather was 
auspicious, and that the spring began to melt 
into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand 
and sallied into the country, as stark mad as 
was ever Don Quixote from reading books of 
chivalry. 

One of our party had equaled the Don in the 



464 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

fulness of his equipments, being attired cap-a- 
pie for the enterprise. He wore a broad-skirted 
fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred 
pockets; a pair of, stout shoes and leathern 
gaiters ; a basket slung on one side for fish ; a 
patent rod, a landing net, and a score of other 
inconveniences only to be found in the true 
angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, 
he was as great a matter of stare and wonder- 
ment among the country folk, who had never 
seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad 
hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the 
Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook 
among the Highlands of the Hudson — a most 
unfortunate place for the execution of those 
piscatory tactics which had been invented 
along the velvet margins of quiet English riv- 
ulets. It was one of those wild streams that 
lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheed- 
ed beauties enough to fill the sketch-book of a 
hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would 
leap down rocky shelves, making small cas- 
cades, over which the trees threw their broad 
balancing sprays and long nameless weeds 
hung in fringes from the impending banks, 
dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes it 
would brawl and fret along a ravine in the 
matted shade of a forest, filling it with mur- 
murs, and after this termagant career would 
steal forth into open day with the most 
placid, demur face imaginable, as I have seen 
some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after fill- 
ing her home with uproar and ill-humor, come 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 465 

dimpling out of doors, swimming and curtsey- 
ing and smiling upon all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook 
glide at such times through some bosom of 
green meadowland among the mountains, 
where the quiet was only interrupted by the 
occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cat- 
tle among the clover or the sound of a wood- 
cutter's axe from the neighboring forest! 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all 
kinds of sport that required either patience or 
adroitness, and had not angled above half an 
hour before I had completely "satisfied the 
sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth 
of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is 
something like poetry — a man must be born to 
it. I hooked myself instead of the fish, tangled 
my line in every tree, lost my bait, broke my 
rod, until I gave up the attempt in despair, 
and passed the day under the trees reading old 
Izaak, satisfied that it was his fascinating vein 
of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had 
bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. 
My companions, however, were more perse- 
vering in their delusion. I have them at this 
moment before my eyes, stealing along the 
border of the brook where it lay open to the 
day or was merely fringed by shrubs and 
bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow 
scream as they break in upon his rarely-in- 
vaded haunt; the kingfisher watching them 
suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs 
the deep black millpond in the gorge of the 
hills; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways 



466 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

from off the stone or log on which he is sunning 
himself; and the panic-struck frog plumping 
in headlong as they approach, and spreading 
an alarm throughout the watery world around. 

I recollect also that, after toiling and watch- 
ing and creeping about for the greater part of 
a day, with scarcely any success in spite of all 
our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country 
urchin came down from the hills, with a rod 
made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of 
twine, and, as Heaven shall help me ! I believe 
a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile 
earthworm, and in half an hour caught more 
fish than we had nibbles throughout the day! 

But, above all, I recollect the '*good, honest, 
wholesome, hungry" repast which we made 
under a beech tree just by a spring of pure, 
sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill, 
and how, when it was over, one of the party 
read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milk- 
maid, while I lay on the grass and built castles 
in a bright pile of clouds until I fell asleep. 
All this may appear like mere egotism, yet I 
cannot refrain from uttering these recollections, 
which are passing like a strain of music over 
my mind and have been called up by an agree- 
able scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In the morning's stroll along the banks of the 
Alun, a beautiful little stream which flows down 
from the Welsh hills and throws itself into the 
Dee, my attention was attracted to a group 
seated on the margin. On approaching I found 
it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic 
disciples. The former was an old fellow with 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 467 

a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very 
carefully patched, betokening poverty hon- 
estly come by and decently maintained. His 
face bore the marks of former storms, but 
present fair weather, its furrows had been 
worn into an habitual smile, his iron-gray 
locks hung about his ears, and he had alto- 
gether the good-humored air of a constitu- 
tional philosopher who was disposed to take 
the world as it went. One of his companions 
was a ragged wight with the skulking look of 
an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find 
his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the 
neighborhood in the darkest night. The 
other was a tall, awkward country lad, with a 
lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a 
rustic beau. The old man was busy in exam- 
ining tke maw of a trout which he had just 
killed, to discover by its contents what insects 
were seasonable for bait, and was lecturing on 
the subject to his companions, who appeared 
to listen with infinite deference. I have a 
kind feeling towards all "brothers of the 
angle" ever since I read Izaak Walton. They 
are men, he affirms, of a "mild, sweet and 
peaceable spirit ;" and my esteem for them has 
been increased since I met with an old "Tre- 
tyse of Fishing with the Angle, ' ' in which are 
set forth many of the maxims of their inoffens- 
ive fraternity. "Take good hede, " sayeth this 
honest little tretyse, "that in going about your 
disportes ye open no man's gates but that ye 
shet them again. Also ye shall not use this 
forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to 



468 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the encreasing and sparing of your money only, 
but principally for your solace, and to cause 
the helth of your body and specyally of your 
soule. "* 

I thought that I could perceive in the vet- 
eran angler before me an exemplification of 
what I had read; and there was a cheerful con- 
tentedness in his looks that quite drew me 
towards him. I could not but remark the gal- 
lant manner in which he stumped from one 
part of the brook to another, waving his rod 
in the air to keep the line from dragging on 
the ground or catching among the bushes, and 
the adroitness with which he would throw his 
fly to any particular place, sometimes skim- 
ming it lightly along a little rapid, sometimes 
casting it into one of those dark holes made by 
a twisted root or overhanging bank in which 
the large trout are apt to lurk. In the mean- 
while he was giving instructions to his two dis- 
ciples, showing them the manner in which they 
should handle their rods, fix their flies, and 
play them along the surface of the stream. 
The scene brought to my mind the instructions 
of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The 

*From this same treatise it would appear that angHng 
is a more industrious and devout employment than it is 
generally considered. "For when ye purpose to go on 
your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye 
many persons with you, which might let you of your 
game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in saying 
effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, 
ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydleness^ 
which is prmcipall cause to inducem an to many other 
vices, as it is right well known." 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 469 

country around was of that pastoral kind which 
Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of 
the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beau- 
tiful vale of Gessford, and just where the in- 
ferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from 
among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, 
like that recorded in his work, was mild and 
sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping 
shower that sowed the whole earth with dia- 
monds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old 
angler, and was so much entertained that, 
under pretext of receiving instructions in his 
art, I kept company with him almost the 
whole day, wandering along the banks of the 
stream and listening to his talk. He was very 
communicative having all the easy garrulity 
of cheerful old age, and I fancy was a little 
flattered by having an opportunity of display- 
ing his piscatory lore, for who does not like 
now and then to play the sage? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, 
and had passed some years of his youth in 
America, particularly in Savannah, where he 
had entered into trade and had been ruined 
by the indiscretion of a partner. He had after- 
wards experienced many ups and downs in life 
until he got into the navy, where his leg was 
carried away by a cannon-ball at the battle of 
Camperdown. This was the only stroke of 
real good-fortune he had ever experienced, for 
it got him a pension, which, together with 
some small paternal property, brought him in 
a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he 



470 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

retired to nis native village, where he lived 
quietly and independently, and devoted the 
remainder of his life to the "noble art of ang- 
ling.' " 

I found that he had read Izaac Walton 
attentively, and he seemed to have imbibed all 
his simple frankness and prevalent good- 
humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted 
about the world, he was satisfied that the 
world, in itself, was good and beautiful. 
Though he had been as roughly used in differ- 
ent countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by 
every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every 
nation with candor and kindness, appearing 
to look only on the good side of things ; and, 
above all, he was almost the only man I had 
ever met with who had been an unfortunate 
adventurer in America and had honesty and 
magnanimity enough to take the fault to his 
own door, and not to curse the country. The 
lad that was receiving his instructions, I 
learnt, was the son and heir-apparent of a fat 
old widow who kept the village inn, and of 
course a youth of some expectation, and much 
courted by the idle gentleman-like personages 
of the place. In taking him under his care, 
therefore, the old man had probably an eye to 
a privileged corner in the tap-room and an 
occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling — if 
we could forget, which anglers are apt to do, 
the cruelties and tortures inflicted on worms 
and insects — that tends to produce a gentleness 
of spirit and a pure serenity of mind. As the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 471 

English are methodical even in their recrea- 
tions, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, 
it has been reduced among them to perfect rule 
and system. Indeed, it is an amusement 
peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cul- 
tivated scenery of England, where every 
roughness has been softened away from the 
landscape. It is delightful to saunter along 
those limpid streams which wander, like veins 
of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful 
country, leading one through a diversity of 
small home scenery — sometimes wandering 
through ornamented grounds; sometimes 
brimming along through rich pasturage, 
where the fresh green is mingled with sweet- 
smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing in sight 
of villages and hamlets, and then running 
capriciously away into shady retirements. The 
sweetness and serenity of Nature and the quiet 
watchfulness of the sport gradually bring on 
pleasant fits of musing, which are now and 
then agreeably interrupted by the song of a 
bird, the distant whistle of the peasant, or per- 
haps the vagary of some fish leaping out of the 
still water and skimming transiently about its 
glassy surface. "When I would beget con- 
tent," says Izaak Walton "and increase confi- 
dence in the power and wisdom and providence 
of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows 
by some gliding stream, and there contem- 
plate the lilies that take no care, and those 
very many other little living creatures that are 
not only created, but fed (man knows not how) 



472 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

by the goodness of the God of Nature, and 
therefore trust in Him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation 
from one of those ancient champions of ang- 
ling which breathes the same innocent and 
happy spirit: 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 
Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place : 

Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink 
With eager bite of Pike, or Bleak, or Dace ; 

And on the world and my Creator think : 

Whilst so^ne men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace : 

And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness. 

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 

So I the fields and meadows ^een may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will. 

Among the daisies and the violets blue. 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.''^ 

On parting with the old angler I inquired 
after his place of abode, and, happening to be 
in the neighborhood of the village a few eve- 
nings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek 
him out. I found him living in a small cot- 
tage containing only one room, but a perfect 
curiosity in its method and arrangement. It 
was on the skirts of the village, on a green 
bank a little back from the road, with a small 
garden in front stocked with kitchen herbs and 
adorned with a few flowers. The whole front 
of the cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. 
On the top was a ship for a weathercock. The 

* J. Davors. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 473 

interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, 
his ideas of comfort and convenience having 
been acquired on the berth-deck of a man-of- 
war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling 
which in the daytime was lashed up so as to take 
but little room. From the centre of the cham- 
ber hung a model of a ship, of his own work- 
manship. Two or three chairs, a table, and a 
large sea-chest formed the principal mov- 
ables. About the walls were stuck up naval 
ballads, such as "Admiral Hosier's Ghost," 
"All in the Downs," and "Tom Bowling," 
intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among 
which the battle of Camperdown held a distin- 
guished place. The mantelpiece was decorated 
with sea-shells, over which hung a quadrant, 
flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter- look- 
ing naval commanders. His implements for 
angling were carefully disposed on nails and 
hooks about the room. On a shelf was 
arranged his library, containing a work on ang- 
ling, much worn, a Bible covered with canvas, 
an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical 
almanac, and a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat 
with one eye, and a parrot which he had 
caught and tamed and educated himself in the 
course of one of his voyages, and which 
uttered a variety of sea- phrases with the 
hoarse brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. 
The establishment reminded me of that of 
the renowned Robinson Crusoe; it was kept 
in neat order, everything being "stowed 
away" with the regularity of a ship of war; 



4U THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and he informed me that he "scoured the deck 
every morning and swept it between meals. " 

I found him seated on a bench before the 
door, smoking his pipe in the soft evening sun- 
shine. His cat was purring soberly on the 
threshold, and his parrot describing some 
strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung 
in the centre of his cage. He had been ang- 
ling all day, and gave me a history of his sport 
with as much minuteness as a general would 
talk over a campaign, being particularly ani- 
mated in relating the manner in which he had 
taken a large trout, which had completely 
tasked all his skill and wariness, and which he 
had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the 
inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and 
contented old age, and to behold a poor fellow 
like this, after being tempest-tost through life, 
safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in 
the evening of his days! His happiness, how- 
ever, sprung from within himself and was in- 
dependent of external circumstances, for he 
had that inexhaustible good-nature which is 
the most precious gift of Heaven, spreading 
itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, 
and keeping the mind smooth and equable in 
the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learnt 
that he was a universal favorite in the village 
and the oracle of the tap-room, where he de- 
lighted the rustics with his songs, and, like 
Sindbad, astonished them wnth his stories of 
strange lands and shipwrecks and sea-fights. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 475 

He was much noticed too by gentlemen 
sportsmen of the neighborhood, had taught 
several of them the art of angling, and was a 
■privileged visitor to their kitchens. The 
whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffen- 
sive, being principally passed about the neigh- 
boring streams when the weather and season 
were favorable; and at other times he em- 
ployed himself at home, preparing his fishing- 
tackle for the next campaign or manufacturing 
rods, nets, and flies for his patrons and pupils 
among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on 
Sundays, though he generally fell asleep dur- 
ing the sermon. He had made it his particu- 
lar request that when he died he should be 
buried in a green spot which he could see from 
his seat in church, and which he had marked 
out ever since he was a boy, and had thought 
of when far from home on the raging sea in 
danger of being food for the fishes: it was the 
spot where his father and mother had been 
buried. 

1 have done, for fear that my reader is grow- 
ing weary, but I could not refrain from draw- 
ing the picture of this worthy ' ' brother of the 
angle," who has made me more than ever in 
love with the theory, though I fear I shall 
never be adroit in the practice, of his art ; and 
I will conclude this rambling sketch in the 
words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the 
blessing of St. Peter's Master upon my reader, 
*'and upon all that are true lovers of virtue, 
and dare trust in His providence, and be 
quiet, and go a- angling. " 



476 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

(found among the papers of the late died- 
rich knickerbocker.) 

A pleasing land of drowsy-hedd it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pays, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves 
which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, 
at that broad expansion of the river denomi- 
nated by the ancient Dutch navi^jators the 
Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently 
shortened sail and implored the protection of 
St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a 
small market-town or rural port which by some 
is called Greensburg, but which is more gen- 
erally and properly known by the name of 
Tarry Town. This name was given, we are 
told, in former days b}^ the good housewives of 
the adjacent country from the inveterate pro- 
pensity of their husbands to linger about the 
village tavern on market days. Be that as it 
may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely 
advert to it for the sake of being precise and 
authentic. Not far from this village, per- 
haps about two miles, there is a little valley, 
or rather lap of land, among high hills, which 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 477 

is one of the quietest places in the whole 
world. A small brook glides through it, with 
just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and 
the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of 
a woodpecker is almost the only sound that 
ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that when a stripling my first ex- 
ploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall 
walnut trees that shades one side of the valley. 
I had wandered into it at noontide, when all 
Nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by 
the roar of my own gun as it broke the Sab- 
bath stillness around and was prolonged and 
reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I 
should wish for a retreat whither I might steal 
from the world and its distractions and dream 
quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I 
know of none more promising than this little 
valley. 

From the listless repose of the place and the 
peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are 
descendants from the original Dutch settlers, 
this sequestered glen has long been known by 
the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads 
are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout 
all the neighboring country. A drowsy, 
dreamy influence seems to hang over the land 
and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some 
say that the place was bewitched by a High 
German doctor during the early days of the 
settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, 
the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his 
powwows there before the country was dis- 
covered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain 



478 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

it is, the place still continues under the sway 
of some witching power that holds a spell over 
the minds of ^the good people, causing them 
to walk in a continual reverie. They are 
given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs, are 
subject to trances and visions, and frequently 
see strange sights and hear music and voices 
in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds 
with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight 
superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare 
of tener across the valley than in any other 
part of the country, and the nightmare, with 
her whole nine- fold, seems to make it the fav- 
orite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts 
this enchanted region, and seems to be com- 
mander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is 
the apparition of a figure on horseback with- 
out a head. It is said b}^ some to be the ghost 
of a Hessian trooper whose head had been car- 
ried away by a cannon-ball in some nameless 
battle during the Revolutionary War, and who 
is ever and anon seen by the country-folk 
hurrying along in the gloom of night as if on 
the wings of the wind. His haunts are not 
confined to the valley, but extend at times to 
the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicin- 
ity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, 
certain of the most authentic historians of those 
parts, who have been careful in collecting and 
collating the floating facts concerning this 
spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, 
having been buried in the churchyard, tha 
ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 479 

nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing- 
speed with which he sometimes passes along 
the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to 
his being belated and in a hurry to get back 
to the churchyard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legend- 
ary superstition, which has furnished materials 
for many a wild story in that region of 
shadows ; and the spectre is known at all the 
country firesides by the name of the Headless 
Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propen- 
sity I have mentioned is not confined to the 
native inhabitants of the valley, but is uncon- 
sciously imbibed by every one who resides 
there for a time. However wide awake they 
may have been before they entered that sleepy 
region, they are sure in a little time to inhale 
the witching influence of the air and begin to 
grow imaginative — to dream dreams and see 
apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible 
laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch val- 
leys, found here and there embosomed in the 
great State of New York, that population, 
manners, and customs remain fixed, while the 
great torrent of migration and improvement, 
which is making such incessant changes in 
other parts of this restless country, sweeps by 
them unobserved. They are like those little 
nooks of still water which border a rapid 
stream where we ma^ see the straw and bubble 
riding quietly at anchor or slowly revolving 
in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush 



480 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of the passing current. Though many years 
have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of 
Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I 
should not still find the same trees and the 
same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of Nature there abode, in 
a remote period of America,n history — that is to 
say, some thirty years since — a worthy wight 
of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, 
or, as he expressed it, ** tarried," in Sleepy 
Hollow for the purpose of instructing the chil- 
dren of the vicinity. He was a native of Con- 
necticut, a State which supplies the Union with 
pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, 
and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier 
woodmen and country schoolmasters. The 
cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to 
his person. He was tall, but exceedingly 
lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his 
sleeves, feet that might have served for 
shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung 
together. His head was small, and flat at 
top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, 
and a long snip nose, so that it looked like a 
weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck 
to tell which way the wind blew. To see him 
striding along the profile of a hill on a windy 
day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering 
about him, one might have mistaken him for 
the genius of Famine descending upon the 
earth or some scarecrow eloping from a corn- 
field. 

His school-house was a low building of one 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 481 

large room, rudely constructed of logs, the 
windows partly glazed and partly patched with 
leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingen- 
iously secured at vacant hours by a withe 
twisted in the handle of the door and stakes 
set against the window- shutters, so that, 
though a thief might get in with perfect ease, 
he would find some embarrassment in getting 
out — an idea most probably borrowed by the 
architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery 
of an eel-pot. The school-house stood in a 
rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the 
foot of a woody hill, with a brook running 
close by and a formidable birch tree growing 
at one end of it. From hence the low mur- 
mur of his pupils' voices, conning over their 
lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's 
day like the hum of a bee hive, interrupted 
now and then by the authoritative voice of the 
master in the tone of menace or command, or, 
peradventure, by the appalling sound of the 
birch as he urged some tardy loiterer along the 
flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he 
was a conscientious man, and ever bore in 
mind the golden maxim, "Spare the rod and 
spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars 
certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that 
he was one of those cruel potentates of the 
school who joy in the smart of their subjects; 
on the contrary, he administered justice with 
discrimination rather than severity, taking 
the burden off the backs of the weak and lay- 
ing it on those of the strong. Your mere 

81 Sketch Book 



482 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

puny stripling-, that winced at the least flour- 
ish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; 
but the claims of justice were satisfied by 
inflicting a double portion on some little 
tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch ur- 
chin, who sulked and swelled and grew 
dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this 
he called "doing his duty by their parents;" 
and he never inflicted a chastisement without 
following it by the assurance, so consolatory 
to the smarting urchin, that "he would re- 
member it and thank him for it the longest day 
he had to live. ' ' 

When school-hours were over he was even 
the companion and playmate of the larger 
boys, and on holiday afternoons would convoy 
some of the smaller ones home who happened 
to have pretty sisters or good housewives for 
mothers noted for the comforts of the cup- 
board. Indeed it behooved him to keep on 
good terms with his pupils. The revenue aris- 
ing from his school was small, and would have 
been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with 
daily bread, for he was a huge feeder and, 
though lank, had the dilating powers of an 
anaconda; but to help out his maintenance he 
was, according to country customs in those 
parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the 
farmers whose children he instructed. With 
these he lived successively a week at a time 
thus going the rounds for the neighborhood 
with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton 
handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 483 

pui'ses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to 
consider the cost of schooling a grievous bur- 
den and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had 
various ways of rendering himself both useful 
and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occa- 
sionally in the lighter labors of their farms, 
helped to make hay, mended the fences, took 
the horses to water, drove the cows from pas- 
ture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He 
laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and 
absolute sway with which he lorded it in his 
little empire, the school, and became wonder- 
fully gentle and ingratiating. He found favors 
in the eyes of the mothers by petting the chil- 
dren, particularly the youngest; and like the 
lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously 
the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on 
one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for 
whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was 
the singing-master of the neighborhood and 
picked up many bright shillings by instructing 
the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter 
of no little vanity to him on Sundays to take 
his station in front of the church-gallery with 
a band of chosen singers, where, in his own 
mind, he completely carried away the palm 
from the parson. Certain it is, his voice re- 
sounded far above all the rest of the congrega- 
tion, and there are peculiar quavers still to be 
heard in that church, and which may even be 
heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side 
of the mill-pond on a still Sunday morning, 
which are said to be legitimately descended 



484 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by 
divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way 
which is commonly denominated "by hook 
and by crook, ' ' the worthy pedagogue got on 
tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who 
understood nothing of the labor of headwork, 
to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of 
some importance in the female circle of a 
rural neighborhood, being considered a kind of 
idle, gentlemanlike personage of vastly supe- 
rior taste and accomplishments to the rough 
country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learn- 
ing only to the parson. His appearance, 
therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at 
the tea-table of a farmhouse and the addition 
of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweet- 
meats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver 
tea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was 
peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the 
country damsels. How he would figure 
among them in the churchyard between ser- 
vices on Sundays, gathering grapes for them 
from the wild vines that overrun the surround- 
ing trees; reciting for their amusement all the 
epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, 
with a whole bevy of them, along the banks 
of the adjacent mill-pond, while the more 
bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly 
back, envying his superior elegance and ad- 
dress. 

From this half-itinerant life, also, he was a 
kind of traveling gazette, carrying the whole 
budget of local gossip from house to house, so 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 485 

that his appearance was always greeted with 
satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by 
the women as a man of great erudition, for he 
had read several books quite through, and was 
a perfect master of Cotton Mather's "History 
of New England Witchcraft," in which, by 
the way, he most firmly and potently believed. 
He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small 
shrewdness and simple credulity. His appe- 
tite for the marvelous and his powers of digest- 
ing 4t were equally extraordinary, and both 
had been increased by his residence in this 
spellbound region. No tale was too gross or 
monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was 
often his delight, after his school was dismissed 
in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich 
bed of clover bordering the little brook that 
whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con 
over old Mather's direful tales until the gath- 
ering dusk of the evening made the printed 
page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as 
he wended his way by swamp and stream and 
awful woodland to the farm-house where he 
happened to be quartered, every sound of Na- 
ture at that witching hour fluttered his excited 
imagination — the moan of the whip-poor-will* 
from the hillside ; the boding cry of the tree- 
toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary 
hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rust- 
ling in the thicket of birds frightened from 
their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled 

*The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at 
night. It receives its name from its note, which is 
thought to resemble those words. 



486 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

most vividly in the darkest places, now and 
then startled him as one of uncommon bright- 
ness would stream across his path ; and if, by 
chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came 
winging his blundering flight against him, the 
poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, 
with the idea that he was struck with a witch's 
token. His only resource on such occasions, 
either to drown thought or drive away evil 
spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; and the good 
people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by. their 
doors of an evening, were often filled with 
awe at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked 
sweetness long drawn out," floating from the 
distant hill or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure 
was to pass long winter evenings with the old 
Dutch wives as they sat spinning by the fire, 
with a row of apples roasting and spluttering 
along the hearth, and listen to their marvelous 
tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, 
and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and 
haunted houses, and particularly of the head- 
less horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the 
Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He 
would delight them equally by his anecdotes 
of witchcraft and of the direful omens and por- 
tentous sighs and sounds in the air which pre- 
vailed in the earlier times of Connecticut, and 
would frighten them woefully with specula- 
tions upon comets and shooting stars, and with 
the alarming fact that the world did absolutely 
turn round and that they were half the time 
topsy-turvy. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 487 

But if there was a pleasure in all this while 
snugly cuddling in the chimney-corner of a 
chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the 
crackling wood-fire, and where, of course, no 
spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly 
purchased by the terrors of his subsequent 
walk homewards. What fearful shapes and 
shadows beset his path amidst the dim and 
ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what 
wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of 
light streaming across the waste fields from 
some distant window! How often was he 
appalled by some shrub covered with snow, 
which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very 
path ! How often did he shrink with curdling 
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty 
crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over 
his shoulder, lest he should behold some un- 
couth being tramping close behind him ! And 
how often was he thrown into complete dismay 
by some rushing blast howling among the trees, 
in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian 
on one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the 
night, phantoms of the mind that walk in dark- 
ness; and though he had seen many spectres 
in his time, and been more than once beset by 
Satan in divers shapes in his lonely perambu- 
lations, yet daylight put an end to all these 
evils; and he would have passed a pleasant 
life of it, in despite of the devil and all his 
works, if his path had not been crossed by a 
being that causes more perplexity to mortal 
man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race 



488 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of witches put together, and that was — a 
woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled 
, one evening in each week to receive his in- 
structions in psalmody was Katrina Van Tas- 
sel, the daughter and only child of a substan- 
tial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass 
of fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripe 
and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her 
father's peaches, and universally famed, not 
merely for her beauty, but her vast expecta- 
tions. She was withal a little of a coquette, as 
might be perceived even in her dress, which 
was a mixture of ancient and modern fash- 
ions, as most suited to set off her charms. She 
wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which 
her great-great-grandmother had brought over 
from Saardam, the tempting stomacher of the 
olden time; and withal a provokingly short 
petticoat to display the prettiest foot and ankle 
in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart 
towards the sex, and it is not to be wondered 
at that so tempting a rnorsel soon found favor 
in his eyes more especially after he had visited 
her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van 
Tassel was a perfect pictare of a thriving, con- 
tented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it 
is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts 
beyond the boundaries of his own farm, but 
within those everything was snug, happy and 
well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his 
wealth, but not proud of it, and piqued himself 
upon the hearty abundance, rather than the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 489 

Style, in which he lived. His stronghold was 
situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of 
those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which 
the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A 
great eln; tree spread its broad branches over 
it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of 
the softest and sweetest water in a little well 
formed of a barrel, and then stole sparkling 
away through the grass to a neighboring brook 
that bubbled long among alders and dwarf 
willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast 
barn, that might have served for a church, 
every window and crevice of which seemed 
bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; 
the flail was busily resounding within it from 
morning to night; swallows and martins 
skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows 
of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if 
watching the weather, some with their heads 
under their wings or buried in their bosoms, 
and others, swelling, and cooing, and bowing 
about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine 
on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were 
grunting in the repose and abundance of their 
pens, whence sallied forth, now and then, 
troops of sucking pigs as if to snuff the air. A 
stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in 
an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of 
ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling 
through the farmyard, and guinea-fowls fret- 
ting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, 
with their peevish, discontented cry. Before 
the barn-door strutted the gallant cock, that 
pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine 

32 Sketch Book 



490 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and 
crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart 
— sometimes tearing tip the earth with his feet, 
and then generously calling his ever- hungry 
family of wives and children to enjoy the rich 
morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked 
upon his sumptuous promise of luxurious win- 
ter fare. In his devouring mind's eye he pic- 
tured to himself every roasting-pig running 
about with a pudding in his belly and an apple 
in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to 
bed in a comfortable pie and tucked in with a 
coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in 
their own gravy ; and the ducks pairing cosily 
in dishes, like snug married couples, with a 
decent competency of onion sauce. In the 
porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side 
of bacon and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey 
but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its giz- 
zard under its wing, and, peradventure, a 
necklace of savory sausages; and even bright 
Chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back 
in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if crav- 
ing that quarter which his chivalrous spirit dis- 
dained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, 
and as he rolled his great green eyes over the 
fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of 
rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, which sur- 
rotmded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his 
heart yearned after the damsel who was to in- 
herit these domains, and his imagination ex- 
panded with the idea how they might be read- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 491 

ily 'turned into cash and the money invested in 
immense tracts of wild land and shingle pal- 
aces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy 
already realized his hopes, and presented to 
him the blooming Katrina, with a whole fam- 
ily of children, mounted on the top of a wagon 
loaded with household trumpery, with pots and 
kettles dangling beneath, and he beheld him- 
self bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at 
her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, 
or the Lord knows where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of 
his heart was complete. It was one of those 
spacious farmhouses with high-ridged but 
lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed 
down from the first Dutch settlers, the low 
projecting eaves forming a piazza along the 
front capable of being closed up in bad 
weather. . Under this were hung flails, har- 
ness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets 
for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches 
were built along the sides for summer use, 
and^ a great spinning-wheel at one end and a 
churn at the other showed the various uses to 
which this important porch might be devoted. 
From this piazza the wondering Ichabod en- 
tered the hall, which formed the centre of the 
mansion and the place of usual residence. 
Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a 
long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner 
stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun ; in 
another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from 
the loom ; ears of Indian corn and strings of 
dried apples and peaches hung in gay festoons 



492 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red 
peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep 
into the best parlor, where the claw-footed 
chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like 
mirrors ; andirons, with their accompanying 
shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert 
of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch- 
shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of 
various- colored birds' eggs were suspended 
above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from 
the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, 
knowingly left open, displayed immense 
treasures of old silver and well -mended china. 
From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon 
these regions of delight the peace of his mind 
was at an end, and his only study was how to 
gain the affections of the peerless daughter of 
Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he 
had more real difficulties than generally fell to 
the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom 
had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery 
dragons, and such-like easily-conquered adver- 
saries to contend with, and had to make his 
way merely through gates of iron and brass 
and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where 
the lady of his heart was confined ; all which 
he achieved as easily as a man would carve his 
way to the centre of a Christmas pie, and then 
the lady gave him her hand as a matter of 
course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win 
his way to the heart of a country coquette be- 
set with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, 
which were forever presenting new difficulties 
and impediments, and he had to encounter a 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 493 

host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and 
blood the numerous rustic admirers who beset 
every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful 
and angry eye upon each other, but ready to 
fly out in the common cause against any new 
competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a 
burly, roaring, roistering blade of the name of 
Abraham — or, according to the Dutch abbre- 
viation, Brom — Van Brunt, the hero of the 
country round, which rang with his feats of 
strength and hardihood. He was broad-shoul- 
dered and double-jointed, with short curly 
black hair and a bluff but not unpleasant coun- 
tenance, having a mingled air of fun and arro- 
gance. From his Herculean frame and great 
powers of limb, he had received the nickname 
of Brom Bones, by which he was universally 
known. He was famed for great knowledge 
and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous 
on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at 
all races and cock-fights, and, with the ascend- 
ancy which bodily strength acquires in rustic 
life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his 
hat on one side and giving his decisions with 
an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or 
appeal. He was always ready for either a 
fight or a frolic, but had more mischief than 
ill-will in his composition; and with all his 
overbearing roughness there was a strong dash 
of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had 
three or four boon companions who regarded 
him as their model, and at the head of whom 
he scoured the country, attending every scene 



494 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of feud or merriment for miles around. In 
cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap 
surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and 
when the folks at a country gathering descried 
this well-known crest at a distance, whisking 
about among a squad of hard riders, they al- 
ways stood by for a squall. Sometimes his 
crew would be heard dashing along past the 
farm-houses at midnight with whoop and hal- 
loo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old 
dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen 
for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clat- 
tered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes 
Brom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors 
looked upon him with a mixture of awe, ad- 
miration and good-will, and when any madcap 
prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity 
always shook their heads and warranted Brom 
Bones was at the botom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time sin- 
gled out the blooming Katrina for the object 
of his uncouth gallantries, and, though his am- 
orous toyings were something like the gentle 
caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was 
whispered that she did not altogether discour- 
age his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were 
signals for rival candidates to retire who felt 
no inclination to cross a line in his amours; in- 
somuch, that when his horse was seen tied to 
Van Tassel's paling on a Sunday night, a sure 
sign that his master was courting — or, as it is 
termed, ''sparking" — within, all other suitors 
passed by in despair and carried the war into 
other quarters. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 495 

Such was the formidable rival with whom 
Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, consider- 
ing all things, a stouter man than he would 
have shrunk from the competition and a wiser 
man would have despaired. He had, however, 
a happy*mixture of pliability and perseverance 
in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a 
supple jack — yielding, but tough; though he 
bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed 
beneath the slightest pressure, yet the mo- 
ment it was away, jerk ! he was as erect and 
carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his 
rival would have been madness; for he was 
not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any 
more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Icha- 
bod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet 
and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover 
of his character of singing-master he made fre- 
quent visits at the farm-house ; not that he had 
anything to apprehend from the meddlesome 
interference of parents, which is so often a 
stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait 
Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul; he 
loved his daughter better even than his pipe, 
and, like a reasonable man and an excellent 
father, let her have her way in everything. 
His notable little wife, too, had enough to do 
to attend to her housekeeping and manage her 
poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks 
and geese are foolish things and must be looked 
after, but girls can take care of themselves. 
Thus while the busy dame bustled about the 
house or plied her spinning-wheel at one end 



496 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking 
his evening pipe at the other, watching the 
achievements of a little wooden warrior who, 
armed with a sword in each hand, was most 
valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of 
the barn. In the meantime, Ichabdd would 
carry on his suit with the daughter by the side 
of the spring under the great elm or saunter- 
ing along in the twilight, that hour so favorable 
to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts 
are wooed and won. To me they have always 
been matters of riddle and admiration. Some 
seem to have but one vulnerable point or door 
of access, while others have a thousand avenues 
and may be captured in a thousand different 
ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain 
the former, but a still greater proof of gener- 
alship to maintain possession of the latter, for 
a man must battle for his fortress at every door 
and window. He who wins a thousand com- 
mon hearts is, therefore, entitled to some re- 
nown, but he who keeps undisputed sway over 
the heart of a coquette is, indeed, a hero. Cer- 
tain it is, this was not the case with the re- 
doubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment 
Ichabod Crane made his advances the interests 
of the former evidently declined; his horse 
was no longer seen tied at the paling on Sun- 
day nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose 
between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hol- 
low. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry 
in his nature, w^ould fain have carried matters 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 497 

to open warfare, and have settled their preten- 
sions to the lady according to the mode of 
those most concise and simple reasoners, the 
knights-errant of yore — by single combat ; but 
Ichabod was too conscious of the superior 
might of his adversary to enter the lists 
against him ; he had overheard a boast of 
Bones, that he would "double the schoolmaster 
up and lay him on a shelf of his own school- 
house;" and he was too wary to give him an 
opportunity. There was something extremely 
provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it 
left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the 
funds of rustic wagger)^ in his disposition and 
to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. 
Ichabod became the object of whimsical perse- 
cution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. 
They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; 
smoked out his singing school by stopping up 
the chimney; broke into the school-house at 
night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of 
withe and window stakes, and. turned every- 
thing topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmas- 
ter began to think all the witches in the coun- 
try held their meetings there. But, what was 
still more annoying, Brom took all opportuni- 
ties of turning him into ridicule in presence of 
his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he 
taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, 
and introduced as a rival of Ichabod 's to in- 
struct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time 
without producing any material effect on the 
relative situation of the contending powers. On 

32 



498 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

a fine autumnal afternoon Ichabod, in pensive 
mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence 
he usually watched all the concerns of his little 
literary realm. In his hand he swayed a fer- 
ule, that sceptre of despotic power ; the birch 
of justice reposed on three nails behind the 
throne, a constant terror to evildoers ; while on 
the desk before him might be seen sundry con- 
traband articles and prohibited weapons de- 
tected upon the persons of idle urchins, such 
as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, 
fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little 
paper game-cocks. Apparently there had 
been some appalling act of justice recently in- 
flicted, for his scholars were all busily intent 
upon their books or slyly whispering behind 
them with one eye kept upon the master, and 
a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout 
the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted 
by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth 
jacket and trousers, a round- crowned fragment 
of a hat like the cap of Mercury, and mounted 
on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, 
which he managed with a rope by way of hal- 
ter. He came clattering up to the school door 
with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a mer- 
ry-making or "quilting frolic" to be held that 
evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and, hav- 
ing delivered his message with that air of im- 
portance and effort at fine language which a 
negro is apt to display on petty embassies of 
the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was 
seen scampering away up the hollow, full of 
the importance and hurry of his mission. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 499 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late 
quiet school-room. The scholars were hurried 
through their lessons without stopping at tri- 
fles ; those who were nimble skipped over half 
with impunity, and those who were tardy had 
a smart application now and then in the rear 
to quicken their speed or help them over a tall 
word. Books were flung aside without being 
put away on the shelves, inkstands were over- 
turned, benches thrown down, and the whole 
school was turned loose an hour before the 
usual time, bursting forth like a legion of 
young imps, yelping and racketing about the - 
green in joy at their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an 
extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and fur- 
bishing up his best, and, indeed, only, suit of 
rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit 
of broken looking-glass that hung up in the 
school house. That he might make his appear- 
ance before his mistress in the true style of a 
cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer 
with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old 
Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper, 
and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like 
a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it 
is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic 
story, give some account of the looks and 
equipments of my hero and his steed. The 
animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough- 
borse that had outlived almost everything but 
his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, 
with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; 
his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knot- 



500 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

ted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil and 
was glaring and spectral, but the other had 
the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still, he 
must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we 
may judge from the name he bore of Gunpow- 
der. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of 
his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was 
a furious rider, and had infused, very prob- 
ably, some of his own spirit into the animal ; 
for, old and broken down as he looked, there 
was more of the lurking devil in him than in 
any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a 
steed. He rode with short stirrups, which 
brought his knees nearly up. to the pommel of 
the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like 
grass-hoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendic- 
ularly in his hand like a sceptre; and as his 
horse jogged on the motion of his arms was not 
unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small 
wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so 
his scanty strip of forehead might be called, 
and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out 
almost to his horse's tail. Such was the 
appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they 
shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, 
and it was altogether such an apparition as is 
seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, 
the sky was clear and serene, and Nature wore 
that rich and golden livery which we always 
associate with the idea of abundance. The 
forests had put on their sober brown and yel- 
low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 501 

been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of 
orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files 
of wild-ducks began to make their appearance 
high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel might 
be heard from the groves of beech and hickory 
nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at 
intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell 
banquets. In the fulness of their revelry they 
fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush 
to bush and tree to tree, capricious from the 
very profusion and variety around them. 
There was the honest cock robin, the favorite 
game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud 
querulous note ; and the twittering black-birds, 
flying in sable clouds; and the golden- winged 
woodpecker, with liis crimson crest, his broad 
black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the 
cedar-bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow- ^ 
tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers ; 
and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his 
gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes, 
screaming and chattering, bobbing and nod- 
ding and bowing, and pretending to be on good 
terms with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way his 
eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary 
abundance, ranged with delight over the treas- 
ures of jolly Autumn. On all sides he beheld 
vast store of apples — some hanging in oppres- 
sive opulence on the trees, some gathered into 
baskets and barrels for the market, others 
heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. 
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian 



502 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

corn, with its golden ears peeping from their 
leafy coverts and holding out the promise of 
cakes and hasty pudding ; and the yellow pump- 
kins lying beneath them, turning up their 
fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample 
prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and 
anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat-fields, 
breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he 
beheld them soft anticipations stole over his 
mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered and 
garnished with honey or treacle by the delicate 
little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet 
thoughts and "sugared suppositions," he jour- 
neyed along the sides of a range of hills which 
looked out upon some of the goodliest scenes of 
the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually 
wheeled his broad disk down into the west. 
The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motion- 
less and glassy, excepting that here and there 
a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the 
blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few 
amber clouds floated in the sky, without a 
breath of air to move them. The horizon was 
of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into 
a pure apple green, and from that into the deep 
blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lin- 
gered on the woody crests of the precipices 
that overhung some parts of the river, giving 
greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of 
their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the 
distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, 
her sail hanging uselessly against the mast, 
and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 503 

the still water it seemed as if the vessel was 
suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived 
at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he 
found thronged with the pride and flower of 
the adjacent country — old farmers, a spare 
leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and 
breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and mag- 
nificent pewter buckles; their brisk withered 
little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted 
shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors 
and pincushions and gay calico pockets hang- 
ing on the outside; buxom lasses, almost as 
antiquated as their mothers, excepting where 
a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white 
frock, gave symptoms of city innovation ; the 
sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows 
of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair 
generally queued in the fashion of the times, 
especially if they could procure an eel-skin for 
the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the 
country as a potent nourisher and strengthener 
of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the 
scene, having come to the gathering on his 
favorite steed Daredevil — a creature, like 
himself full of metal and mischief, and which 
no one but himself could manage. He was, 
in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, 
given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the 
rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held 
a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of 
a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world 



504 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze 
of my hero as he entered the state parlor of 
Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy 
of buxom lasses with their luxurious display of 
red and white, but the ample charms of a gen- 
uine Dutch country tea-table in the sumptuous 
time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of 
cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, 
known only to experienced Dutch housewives ! 
There was the doughty doughnut, the tenderer 
oily koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; 
sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and 
honey cakes and the whole family of cakes. 
And then there were apple pies and peach pies 
and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and 
smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes 
of preserved plums and peaches and pears and 
quinces; not to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk 

and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledly, 

pretty much as I have enumerated them, with 
the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of 
vapor from the midst. Heaven bless the 
mark! I want breath and time to discuss this 
banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get 
on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane 
was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but 
did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose 
heart dilated in proportion as his skin was 
filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose 
with eating as some men's do with drink. He 
could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round 
him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 505 

bility that he might one day be lord of all this 
scene of almost unimaginable luxury and 
splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd 
turn his back upon the old school-house, snap 
his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper and 
every other niggardly patron, and kick any 
itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should 
dare to call him comrade ! 

. Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among 
his guests with a face dilated with content and 
good-humor, round and jolly as the harvest 
moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, 
but expressive, being confined to a shake of 
the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, 
and a pressing invitation to "fall to and help 
themselves. ' ' 

And now the sound of the music from the 
common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. 
The musician was an old gray-headed negro 
who had been the itinerant orchestra of the 
neighborhood for more than half a century. 
His instrument was as old and battered as him- 
self. The greater part of the time he scraped 
on two or three strings, accompanying every 
movement of the bow with a motion of the 
head, bowing almost to the ground and stamp- 
ing with his foot whenever a fresh couple were 
to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as 
much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, 
not a fibre about him was idle ; and to have 
seen his loosely hung frame in full motion and 
clattering about the room you would have 
thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed 



506 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

patron of the dance, was figuring before you 
in person. He was the admiration of all the 
negroes, who, having gathered, of all ages and 
sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, 
stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces 
at every door and window, gazing with delight 
at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and 
showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. 
How could the flogger of urchins be other- 
wise than animated and joyous? The lady of 
his heart was his partner in the dance, and 
smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous 
oglings, while Brom Bones, sorely smitten 
with love and jealously, sat brooding by him- 
self in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end Ichabod was 
attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, 
with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of 
the piazza gossiping over former times and 
drawing out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I 
am speaking, was one of those highly favored 
places which abound with chronicle and great 
men. The British and American line had run 
near it during the war; it had therefore been 
the scene of marauding and infested with 
refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border 
chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to 
enable each story-teller to dress up his tale 
with a little becoming fiction, and in the indis- 
tinctness of his recollection to make himself the 
hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a 
large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 507 

taken a British frigate with an old iron nine- 
pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his 
gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there 
was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, 
being too rich a mynheer to be lightly men- 
tioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being 
an excellent master of defence, parried a mus- 
ket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he 
absolutely felt is whiz round the blade and 
glance off at the hilt: in proof of which he was 
ready at any time to show the sword, with the 
hilt a little bent. There were several more 
that had been equally great in the field, not 
one of whom but was persuaded that he had a 
considerable hand in bringing the war to a 
happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of 
ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The 
neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of 
the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive 
best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats, 
but are trampled under foot by the shifting 
throng that forms the population of most of 
our country places. Besides, there is no 
encouragement for ghosts in most of our vil- 
lages, for they have scarcely had time to finish 
their first nap and turn themselves in their 
graves before their surviving friends have trav- 
eled away from the neighborhood; so that 
when they turn out at night to walk their 
rounds they have no acquaintance left to call 
upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so 
seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-estab- 
lished Dutch communities. 



508 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

The immediate cause, however, of the preva- 
lence of supernatural stories in these parts was 
doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hol- 
low. There was a contagion in the very air that 
blew from that haunted region; it breathed 
forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies 
infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy 
Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, 
and, as usual, were doling out their wild and 
wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were 
told about funeral trains and mourning cries 
and wailings heard and seen about the great 
tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was 
taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. 
Some mention was made also of the woman in 
white that haunted the dark glen at Raven 
Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter 
nights before a storm, having perished there 
in the snow. The chief part of the stories, 
however, turned upon the favorite spectre of 
Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who 
had been heard several times of late patrolling 
the country, and, it was said, tethered his 
horse nighty among the graves in the church- 
yard. 

The sequestered situation of this church 
seems always to have made it a favorie haunt 
of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll sur- 
rounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from 
among which its decent whitewashed walls 
shine modestly forth, like Christian purity 
beaming through the shades of retirement. A 
gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet 
of water bordered by high trees, between 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 509 

which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of 
the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown 
yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so 
quietly, one would think that there at least the 
dead might rest in peace. On one side of the 
church extends a wide woody dell, along which 
raves a large brook among broken rocks and 
trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part 
of the stream, not far from the church, was 
formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road 
that led to it and the bridge itself were thickly 
shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a 
gloom about it even in the daytime, but occa- 
sioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was 
one of the favorite haunts of the headless horse- 
man, and the place where he was most fre- 
quently encountered. The tale was told of old 
Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, 
how he met the horseman returning from his 
foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to 
get up behind him; how they galloped over 
bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until 
they reached the bridge, when the horseman 
suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old 
Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over 
the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a 
thrice-marvelous adventure of Brom Bones, 
who made light of the galloping Hessian as an 
arrant jockey. He affirmed that on returning 
one night from the neighboring village of Sing- 
Sing he had been overtaken by this midnight 
trooper; that he had offered to race with him 
for a bowl of punch, and should have won it 



510 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all 
hollow, but just as they came to the church 
bridge the Hessian bolted and vanished in a 
flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy under- 
tone with which men talk in the dark, the 
cfountenances of the listeners only now and then 
receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a 
pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod, He 
repaid them in kind with large extracts from 
his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and 
added many marvelous events that had taken 
place in his native state of Connecticut and 
fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly 
walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old 
farmers gathered together their families in 
their wagons, and were heard for some time 
rattling along the hollow roads and over the 
distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on 
pillions behind their favorite swains, and their 
light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clat- 
ter of hoofs, echoed along the silent wood- 
lands, sounding fainter and fainter until they 
gradually died away, and the late scene of noise 
and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod 
only lingered behind, according to the custom 
of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the 
heiress, fully convinced that he was now on 
the high road to success. What passed at this 
interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact 
I do not know. Something, however, I fear 
me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly 
sallied forth, after no very great interval, with 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 511 

an air quite desolate and chop-fallen. Oh 
these women ! these women ! Could that girl 
have been pla5dng off any of her coquettish 
tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor 
pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her con- 
quest of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I ! 
Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with 
the air of one who had been sacking a hen- 
roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without 
looking to the right or left to notice the scene 
of rural wealth on which he had so often 
gloated, he went straight to the stable, and 
with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his 
steed most uncourteously from the comfortable 
quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, 
dreaming of mountains of corn and oats and 
whole valleys of timothy and clover. . 

It was the very witching time of night that 
Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pur- 
sued his travel homewards along the sides of 
the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, 
and which he had traversed so cheerily in the 
afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. 
Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky 
and indistinct waste of waters, with here and 
there the tall mast of a sloop riding quietl}^ at 
anchor under the land. In the dead hush of 
midnight he could even hear the barking of the 
watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hud- 
son; but it was so. vague and faint as only to 
give an idea of his distance from this faithful 
companion of man. Now and then, too, the 
long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally 
awakened, would sound far, far off, from some 



612 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

farm-house away among the hills; but it was 
like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of 
life occurred near him, but occasionally the 
melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the 
guttural twang of a bull-frog from a neighbor- 
ing marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and 
turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he 
had heard in the afternoon now came crowd- 
ing upon his recollection. The night grew 
darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink 
deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasion- 
ally hid them from his sight. He had never 
felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, 
approaching the very place where many of the 
scenes of the ghost-stories had been laid. In 
the center of the road stood an enornious tulip 
tree which towered like a giant above all the 
other trees of the neighborhood and formed a 
kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and 
fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordi- 
nary trees, twisting down almost to the earth 
and rising again into the air. It was connected 
with the tragical story of the unfortunate 
Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by, 
and was universally known by the name of 
Major Andre's tree. The common people 
regarded it with a mixture of respect and sup- 
erstition, partl}^ out of sympath}^ for the fate 
of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the 
tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations 
told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree he 
began to whistle: he thought his whistle was 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 513 

answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply 
through the dry branches. x\s he approached 
a little nearer ' he thought he saw something 
white hanging in the midst of the tree: he 
paused and ceased whistling, but on looking 
more narrowly perceived that it was a place 
where the tree had been scathed by lightning 
and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he 
heard a groan: his teeth chattered and his 
knees smote against the saddle; it was but the 
rubbing of one huge bough upon another as 
they were swayed about by the breeze. He 
passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay 
before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a 
small brook crossed the road and ran into a 
marshy and thickly-wooded glen known by the 
name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs, 
laid side by side, served for a bridge over this 
stream. On that side of the road where the 
brook, entered the wood a group of oaks and 
chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, 
threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this 
bridge was the severest trial. It was at this 
identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was 
captured, and under the covert of those chest- 
nuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen con- 
cealed who surprised him. This has ever since 
been considered a haunted stream, and fearful 
are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to 
pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream his heart began 
to thump; he summoned up, however, all his 
resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks 

33 Sketch Book 



614 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly 
across the bridge , but instead of starting for- 
ward, the perverse old animal made a lateral 
movement and ran broadside against the fence. 
Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, 
jerked the reins on the other side and kicked 
lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in 
vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was 
only to plunge to the opposite side of the road| 
into a thicket of brambles and alder-bushes;' 
The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and 
heel upon the starving ribs of old Gunpowder, 
who dashed forward, snuffing and snorting, but 
came to a stand just by the bridge with a sud- 
denness that had nearly sent his rider sprawl- 
ing over his head. Just at this moment a 
plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught 
the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark 
shadow of the grove on the marign of the 
brook he beheld something huge, misshapen;^ 
black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed' 
gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic 
monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose 
upon his head with terror. What was to be 
done? To turn and fly was now too late; and 
besides, what chance was there of escaping 
ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ! 
ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning' | 
up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded- 
in stammering accents, **Who are you?" Heii 
received no reply. He repeated his demand in. ! 
a still more agitated voice. Still there was no'j 
answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 515 

the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his 
eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a 
psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of 
alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble 
and a bound stood at once in the middle of the 
road. Though the night was dark and dismal, 
yet the form of the unknown might now in 
some degree be ascertained. He appeared to 
be a horseman of large dimensions and mounted 
on a black horse of powerful frame. He made 
no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept 
aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on 
the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now 
got over his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange 
midnight companion, and bethought himself 
of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Gat* 
loping Hessian, now quickened his steed in 
hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. 
Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, think- 
ing to lag behind; the other did the same. 
His heart began to sink within him ; he endeav^ 
ored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched 
tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and he 
could not utter a stave. There was some- 
thing in the moody and dogged silence of this 
pertinacious companion that was mysterious 
and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted 
for. On mounting a rising ground, which 
brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in 
relief against the sky, gigantic in height and 
muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck 
on perceiving that he was headless! but his 



5.16 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

horror was still more increased on observing; 
that the head, which should have rested on his 
shoulders, was carried before him on the pom- 
mel of the saddle. His terror rose to despera- 
tion, he rained a shower of kicks and blows 
upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden move- 
ment to give his companion the slip ; but the 
spectre started full jump with him. Away, 
then, they dashed through thick and thin, 
stones flying and sparks flashing at every 
bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in 
the air as he stretched his long lank body 
away over his horse's head in the eagerness of 
his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns 
off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who 
seemed possessed with a demon, instead of 
keeping up it, made an opposite turn and 
plunged headlong down hill to the left. This 
road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by 
trees for about a uarter of a mile, where it 
crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and 
just beyond swells the green knoll on which 
stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his 
unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the 
chase ; but just as he had got halfway through 
the hollow the girths of the saddle gave away 
and he felt it slipping from under him. He 
seized it by the pommel and endeavored to 
hold it firm, but in vain, and had just time to 
save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round 
the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and 
he heard it trampled under foot by his pur- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 517 

suer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van 
Ripper's wrath passed across his mind, for it 
was his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time 
for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his 
haunches, and (unskilled rider that he was) he 
had much ado to maintain his seat, sometimes 
slipping on one side, sometimes on another, 
and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his 
horse's back-bone with a violence that he verily 
feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him 
with the hopes that the church bridge was at 
hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star 
in the bosom of the brook told him that he was 
not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church 
dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He 
recollected the place where Brbm Bones' 
ghostly competitor had disappeared. *'If I 
can but reach that bridge, " thought Ichabod, 
" I am safe. " Just then he heard the black 
steed panting and blowing close behind him; 
he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. 
Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old 
Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thun- 
dered over the resounding planks; he gained 
the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look 
behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, 
according to rule, in a flash of fire and brim- 
stone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in 
his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his 
head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge 
the horrible missile, but too late. It encoun- 
tered his cranium with a tremendous crash; 
he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and 



^ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin 
rider passed by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found, 
without his saddle and with the bridle under 
his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his mas- 
ter's gate. Ichabod did not make his appear- 
ance at breakfast; dinner- hour came, but no 
Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school- 
house and strolled idly about the banks of the 
brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper 
now began to feel some uneasiness about the 
fate of poor Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry 
was set on foot, and after diligent investiga- 
tion they came upon his traces. In one part 
of the road leading to the church was found 
the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of 
horses' hoofs, deeply dented in the road and 
evidently at furious speed, were traced to the 
bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad 
part of the brook, where the water ran deep 
and black, was found the hat of the unfor- 
tunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the 
schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans 
Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, exam- 
ined the bundle which contained all his worldly 
effects. They consisted of two shirts and a 
half, two stocks for the neck, a pair or two of 
worsted stockings, an old pair of corduroy 
small-clothes, a rusty razor, a book of psalm 
tunes full of dog's ears, and a broken pitch- 
pipe. As to the books and furniture of the 
school-house, they belonged to the community, 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 519 

excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witch- 
craft, a New England Almanac, and a book of 
dreams and fortune-telling ; in which last was 
a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted 
in severar fruitless attempts to make a copy of 
verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. 
These magic books and the poetic scrawl were 
forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans 
Van Ripper, who from that time forward 
determined to send his children no more to 
school, observing that he never knew any good 
come of this same reading and writing. What- 
ever money the schoolmaster possessed^— and .; 
he had received his quarter's pay but a day or r^ 
two before — he must have had about his person' 
at the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much specula- 
tion at the church on the following Sunday. 
Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in 
the church-yard, at the bridge, and at the spot 
where the hat and pumpkin had been found. 
The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
budget of others were called to mind, and when 
they had diligently considered them all, -and 
compared them with the symptoms of the 
present case, they shook their heads and came 
to' the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried 
off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a 
bachelor and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled 
his head any more about him, the school was 
removed to a different quarter of the hollow 
and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true an old farmer, who had been down 
to New York on a visit several years after, and 



520 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

from whom this account of the ghostly adven- 
ture was received, brought home the intelli- 
gence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that 
he had left the neighborhood, partly through 
fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and 
partly in mortification at having been suddenly 
dismissed by the heiress-; that he had changed 
his quarters to a distant part of the country ; 
had kept school and studied law at the same 
time, had been a,dmitted to the bar, turned 
politician, electioneered, written for the news- 
papers, and finally had been made a justice of 
the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones too, who 
shortly after his rival's disappearance con- 
ducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the 
altar,, was observed to look exceedingly know- 
ing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, 
and always burst into a hearty laugh at the 
mention of the pumpkin; which led some to 
suspect that he knew more about the matter 
than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are 
the best judges of these matters, maintain to 
this day that Ichabod was spirited away by 
supernatural means; and it is a favorite story 
often told about the neighborhood round the 
winter evening fire. The bridge became more 
than ever an object of superstitious awe, and 
that may be the reason why the road has been 
altered of late years, so as to approach the 
church by the border of the mill-pond. The 
school-house, being deserted, soon fell to 
decay, and was reported to be haunted by the 
ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and the 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 521 

plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still sum- 
mer evening, has often fancied his voice at a 
distance chanting a melancholy psalm tune 
among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKER- 
BOCKER. 

The preceding tale is given almost in the 
precise words in which I heard it related at a 
Corporation meeting of the ancient city of 
Manhattoes, at which were present many of its 
sagest and most illustrious burghers. The 
narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly 
old fellow in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a 
sadly humorous face, and one whom I strongly 
suspected of being poor, he made such efforts 
to be entertaining. When his story was con- 
cluded there was much laughter and approba- 
tion, particularly from two or three deputy 
aldermen who had been asleep the greater part 
of the time. There was, however, one tall, 
dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eye- 
brows, who maintained a grave and rather 
severe face throughout, now and then folding 
his arms, inclining his head, and looking down 
upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in 
his mind. He was one of your wary men, who 
never laugh but upon good grounds — when 
they have reason and the law on their side. 
When the mirth of the rest of the company had 
subsided and silence was restored, he leaned 



622 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

one arm on the elbow of his chair, and stick- 
ing the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight 
but exceedingly sage motion of the head and 
contraction of the brow, what was the moral 
of the story and what it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a 
glass of wine to his lips as a refreshment after 
his toils, paused for a moment, looked at hi^J 
inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, 
\lowering the glass slowly to the table, ob- 
served that the story was intended most log- 
ically to prove— /■ 

"That there is no situation in life but Ra^'iti§! 
advantages and pleasures — provided we Will 
but take a joke as we find it; 

"That, therefore, he that runs races witH' 
goblin troopers is likely to have rough ridings 
of it 

"Ergo, for a country* schoolmaster to be 
refused the hand of a Dutch heiress is sl cef-^ 
tain step to high preferment in the state.'* 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brow'?^ 
tenfold closer after this explanation, being' 
sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syl- 
logism, while methought the one in pepper- 
and-salt eyed him with something of a trium- 
phant leer. At length he observed that all t\iii: 
was very well, but still he thought the storyst^ 
little on the extravagant — ^there were one or 
two points on which he had his doubts. 

"Faith, sir,," replied the story-teller, "as to 
that matter, I don't believe one-half of it 
myself." D. K. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 523 



L'ENVOY.* 

Go,little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

— Chaucer's "Belle Dame sans Mercie." 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch 
Book the Author cannot but express his deep 
sense of the indulgence with which his first has 
been received, and of the liberal disposition 
that has been evinced to treat him with kind- 
ness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever 
may be said of them by others, he has found 
to be a singularly gentle and good-natured 
race; it is true that each has in turn objected 
to some one or two articles, and that these 
individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, 
would amount almost to a total condemnation 
of his work; but then he has been consoled by 
observing that what one has particularly cen- 
sured another has as particularly praised; and 
thus, the encomiums being set off against the 
objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, 
commended far beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting 
tnuch of this kind favor by not following the 

*Closing the second volume of the London edition. 



524 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

counsel that has been liberally bestowed upon 
him ; for where abundance of valuable advice 
is given gratis it may seem a man's own fault 
if he should go astray. He only can say in 
his vindication that he faithfully determined 
for a time to govern himself in his second 
volume by the opinions passed upon his first; 
but he was soon brought to a stand by the 
contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly 
advised him to avoid the ludicrous; another to 
shun the pathetic ; a third assured him that he 
was tolerable at description, but cautioned 
him to leave narrative alone; while a fourth 
declared that he had a very pretty knack at 
turning a story, and was really entertaining 
when in a pensive mood, but was grievously 
mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a 
spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, 
who each in turn closed some particular path, 
but left him all the world beside to range in, 
he found that to follow all their counsels 
would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained 
for a time sadly embarrassed, when all at once 
the thought struck him to ramble on as he had 
begun ; that his work being miscellaneous and 
written for different humors, it could not be 
expected that any one would be pleased witn 
the whole ; but that if it should contain some- 
thing to suit each reader, his end would be 
completely answered. Few guests sit down to 
a varied table with an equal appetite for every 
dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted 
pig; another holds a curry of a devil in utter 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 525 

abomination; a third cannot tolerate the 
ancient flavor of venison and wild-fowl; and a 
fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks with 
sovereign contempt on those knick-knacks here 
and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each 
article is condemned in its turn, and yet 
amidst this variety of appetites seldom does a 
dish go away from the table without being 
tasted and relished by some one or other of 
the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to 
serve up this second volume in the same heter- 
ogeneous way with his first; simply requesting 
the reader, if he should find here and there 
somethmg to please him, to rest assured that it 
was written expressly for intelligent readers 
like himself; but entreating him, should he 
find anything to dislike, to tolerate it, as one 
of those articles which the author has been 
obliged to write for readers of a less refined 
taste. 

To be serious : The author is conscious of 
the numerous faults and imperfections of his 
work, and well aware how little he is disci- 
plined and accomplished in the arts of author- 
ship. His deficiencies are also increased by a 
diffidence arising from his peculiar situation. 
He finds himself writing in a strange land, and 
appearing before a public which he has been 
accustomed from childhood to regard with the 
highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is 
full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, 
yet finds that very solicitude continually em- 
barrassing his powers and depriving him of 



526 THE SKETCH BOQK. 

that ease and confidence which are necessary 
to successful exertion. Still, the kindness 
with which he is treated encourages him to 
go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a 
steadier footing; and thus he proceeds, half 
venturing, half shrinking, surprised at his 
own good-fortune and wondering at his own 
temerity. 

THE END. 



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6. Autobiography of Benjamin 

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19. Browning's Poems .Browning 

24. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 

Byron 

25. Child's History of England 
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30. Daily Food for Christians 

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34. Drummond's Addresses 

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88. Emerson's Essays, Vol. 2 
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89. Ethics of the Dust Ruskin 

40. Evangeline Longfellow 

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93. Natural Law iii the Spiritual 

World Drummond 

94. Now or Never ..Optic 

97. Paradise Lost Milton 

98. Paul and Virginia 

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99. Pilgrim's Progress Bunyan 

100. Pl^iin Tales fr- ji the Hills 

Kipling 

101. Pleasures jf Life Liibbock 

102. Prince of the House of David 

Ingraham 

103. Princess Tennyson 

104. Prue and I Curtis 

107. Queen of the Air Ruskin 

110. Rab and His Friends. . .Brown 

111. Representative Men.. Emerson 

112. Reveries of a Bachelor 

Mitchell 

118. RoUo in Geneva Abbott 

114. Rollo in Holland Abbott 

115. Rollo in Lond®n Abbott 

118, Rollo in Naples Abbott 

117. Rollo in Paris Abbott 

118. Rollo in Rome Abbott 

119. Rollo in Scotland Abbott 

120. Rollo in Switzerland. . .Abbott 

121. Rollo on the Atlantie.,. Abbott 

122. Rollo on the Rhine Abbott 

123. Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 

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128. Sartor Resartus Carlyle 

129. Scarlet Letter Hawthorne 

130 Sesame and Lilies Ruskin 

181. Sign of the Four Doyle 

132. Sketch Book Irving 

133. Stickit Minister Crockett 

140. Tales from Shakespeare 

C. and Mary Lamb 

141. Tanglewood Tales.. Hawthorne 

142. True and Beautiful Ruskin 

143. Three Men in a Boat. .Jerome 

144. Through the Looking Glass 

Carroll 

145. Treasure Island Stevenson 

14S. Twice Told Tales.. Hawthorne 

150. Uncle Tom's Cabin Stowe 

154. Vicar of Wakefield. .Goldsmith 

158. Whittier's Poems Whittier 

159. Wide, Wide World ....Warner 

160. Window in Thrums Barrie 

161. Wonder Book Hawthorne 



AUG 18 1900 



